


The Dragon Cat

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adopted Children, Alfiq, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat Burglars, Cat Puns, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Corpse Desecration, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Religious Conflict, Torture, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19309453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: "In the last days, there were dragons roosting in Khenarthi's skies, and they threatened to eat the sun and the moons and the stars. But Alkosh, the Time Cat, took pity on the fairest of races and spoke to Azurah. They created an Alfiq, smallest and wisest of the Khajiit, and gave her great gifts of magic and cunning even by the standards of the Khajiit. The Hungry Cat Al-Du-In laughed. So they gave her a dragon's voice and name: 'Dah-Mir-Rah'.Of course, we called her Dar'Myrrha, the Dragon Cat."Being an Alfiq in Skyrim is bad enough when most people mistake you for a housecat. Then Alkosh and Azurah make you the Dragonborn.The god-cats have no sense of proportion, Dar'Myrrha thinks, no sense of proportion at all.





	1. The Hungry Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, torture, genocide, imprisonment, child death, misogyny, war crimes and mentions of suicide, child abuse, child neglect and child abandonment. Bit of a unique AU; what if the Dragonborn was an Alfiq Khajiit. Enjoy!

 

Dar’Myrrha was not amused.

            Life as an Alfiq Khajiit was hard outside of Elseweyr because everyone thought she was a housecat. Such deception was useful when she needed to acquire small valuable objects for Ri’saad but frustrating when she wanted to speak to someone that wasn’t of the fairest of races. She wondered if J’zargo and Ma’Tisha would take her up to the College and sneak her magic books. Or maybe J’zargo could claim she was his familiar instead of his elder sister. An Alfiq had to be flexible like that.

            The ride she had stolen was stuffed full of rebel Nords who stank to Khenarthi and complained about going to their execution. That was what happened when one got caught doing naughty things. The blond carried himself with commendable grace under the circumstances, Dar’Myrrha conceded. The other blond was gagged. The thief kept on whining. The dark-haired one was using very choice words in any number of languages, including excretable Ta’agra.

            “It’s m’nra’kah’sload,” Dar’Myrrha finally said in exasperation, jumping onto the Nord’s knee. “This one means, she assumes, you’re insulting General Tullius’ sexual history, correct? A sload-fucker is nra’kah’sload. You sound like you’re saying he invites sloads home for a cup of moon sugar tea.”

            The Nord blinked once. His eyes were a peculiar aqua flecked with brown. Then he laughed.

            “Maybe he does invite them home for a spot of tea before they get down to the fucking,” he remarked in a deep basso that vibrated through Dar’Myrrha’s body. When he wasn’t swearing, his Ta’agra was a little better. She supposed she should be impressed a Nord – a Stormcloak no less – could even use her language.

            The blond narrowed his eyes. “Have I gone mad or are you talking to a cat?”

            “Alfiq,” the dark-haired one corrected. “She just corrected me on my pronunciation of sload-fucker in Ta’agra.”

            It was a shame this one was going to be executed. He was intelligent for a Nord.

            The blond snorted. “Okay. How does one say ‘Tullius likes to get-‘”

            The rest of the suggestion was so obscene that Dar’Myrrha nearly fell off the wagon in shock. The dark-haired Nord laughed harder.

            “’-By Elenwen in the morning before reveille’?” finished the blond with a broad grin.

            “This one refuses to translate that,” Dar’Myrrha said in Tamrielic.

            “Talos titty-fucking Dibella, she does talk!” exclaimed the blond Nord.

            “Two Nords with a brain. This one has truly seen a day of wonders,” Dar’Myrrha observed.

            “You better get off the wagon once we’re at Helgen,” the blond said with a sigh. “Tullius is the kind of Cyrod who’d kick a cat if he was in a bad mood.”

            “I’m Bjarni, the gagged man is my father Ulfric, the blond’s Ralof and the thief’s Lokir,” introduced the dark-haired Nord. “Don’t suppose you could bite Elenwen’s ankles on the way out?”

            “This one has family in Elseweyr. She can’t take the chance,” Dar’Myrrha said apologetically.

            “Fair enough.” Bjarni leaned back against the wagon’s seat. “Tell Ri’saad sorry I can’t buy that tunic from him. I’ll be drinking with Ysgramor tonight.”

            “This one will,” she promised. It was a simple enough request.

            They rolled into Helgen and Dar’Myrrha leapt off the wagon as Bjarni advised. Tullius stomped around, looking surly and barking orders, and the prisoners were lined up by name in front of the executioner’s block. She decided to hang around and watch the execution of Bjarni and Ralof. They were smart Nords and the moment should be remembered.

            One Nord strode bravely to his death, Lokir got shot in the back for running away, and then it was Bjarni’s turn. With a final rude suggestion for General Tullius, he laid his head on the block.

            Then a dragon landed on the Keep and all Oblivion broke loose.

            No, Dar’Myrrha was not amused.


	2. The Guest Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Chapters in this story will be fairly short and sweet.

 

Running away from a dragon with a cat making commentary on his shoulder and occasionally setting a Legionnaire on fire was definitely a new experience for Bjarni. Dar’Myrrha was a graceful feline with the markings of a snowy sabre cat and startling violet eyes. She was intelligent and articulate. She didn’t much like Thalmor, a feeling he truly shared.

            They met up with Ralof at the Keep and plunged inside. That bitch Tribune arrived with a friend and soon departed to the afterlife. Now armed, they went deeper into the fortress and rescued Stormcloaks from the torturers, killed Legionnaires and edged around a bear. No sign of his father but Bjarni had to hope for the best.

            Once they saw the black dragon flying away on emerging from the caves under Helgen Keep, Dar’Myrrha leapt off his shoulder and hacked up a soot-stained hairball. “This one is sorry,” she apologised. “The air inside was bad.”

            “If you weren’t setting those Legionnaires on fire, we’d be dead by now,” Bjarni assured her. “Don’t worry about it.”

            “Wait, what?” Ralof asked, rolling his shoulders.

            “Alfiq, so far as I know, are the greatest mages of the Khajiit breeds,” Bjarni explained. “There’s several kinds, all depending on the phase and position of the moons.”

            “It is mostly Ohmes, Ohmes-Raht, Cathay or Cathay-Raht who deal with outsiders,” Dar’Myrrha confirmed. “Your friend is perhaps the best scholar of the fairest race outside of Elseweyr.”

            “Humanlike Khajiit,” Bjarni quickly translated.

            “I’ve seen a dragon today. A talking mouser’s the least strange thing today.” Ralof nodded down to Dar’Myrrha. “We can take you to Riverwood, where my sister lives. Good fish there… Err, do you eat fish?”

            “Does a Nord drink mead?” was her retort. “Of course this one eats fish!”

            It was a quiet walk to Riverwood. They stopped at the Guardian Stones; Bjarni and Ralof chose Warrior while Dar’Myrrha chose Mage. Three wolves swiftly became three pelts and meat for Gerdur’s pot after attacking them.

            Gerdur, Ralof’s sister, was chopping firewood. She disbelieved the dragon and nearly jumped out of her skin when Dar’Myrrha asked for some water. But she collected herself like the hetwoman she was, offered hospitality, and decided to send Sven down to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to warn him about the dragons.

            The wolf meat gave a gamy flavour to the vegetable stew but everyone, including Dar’Myrrha, ate it gladly. “I’ll take you down to the crossroads tomorrow morning,” Bjarni promised her. “It’s a bit of a walk to Whiterun after that, but I think a Khajiit caravan stops there every few days.”

            “Ri’saad’s,” she confirmed. “This one usually travels with him but there was a bandit who was most rude to our caravan. He stole Kharjo’s moon amulet. This one dealt with his friends and claimed back the amulet.”

            “Shame you’re not much of a wizard,” Ralof said as he poured himself some mead. “You could say Dar’Myrrha was your familiar and no one would blink twice if a Legion camp was set on fire.”

            “You think almost like one of the fairest race,” Dar’Myrrha observed. “You two might be the smartest Nords to ever exist.”

            Bjarni grinned. “My brother Egil’s smarter.”

            “Does he know of Alfiq?”

            “Probably not. He’s a Vigilant of Stendarr in all but name.”

            “He serves the Runt Cat? That is good. Runts need mercy.” Dar’Myrrha began to clean herself.

            Bjarni idly wondered if he could bring her to Windhelm just so she could call Egil a runt. Then he decided against it. His mother’s soul would ascend to Aetherius from the shock of it and then come back because the gods didn’t want her bothering them.

            The next morning he dropped her off at the crossroads and wished her luck. He’d never see her again.

…

Bjarni and Ralof weren’t bad for Nords but it was good to among the fairest of races once again. Kharjo was pleased to receive his moon amulet back and Ri’saad was greatly concerned about the dragons. Dar’Myrrha simply revelled in the heat of the fire and Atahbah’s good rabbit stew.

            Then another dragon attacked the western tower and the caravan guards were conscripted by the city’s Dunmer commander on the way there. Dar’Myrrha, being nearly as good a Destruction mage as her brother J’zargo, went with them. It was time for her to start setting dragons on fire instead of them trying to do it to her.

            “Fall to me, dragon!” ordered one of the Nord guards as he shot arrows at the beast.

            The dragon, being a sensible creature, set him on fire instead.

            Dar’Myrrha thought for a moment. If it could breathe fire, it could use magicka.

            So she called lightning from a clear sky on its horned head, holding it there as the Dunmer woman cast Sparks and the archers used it as target practice. Once her magicka was drained, Khayla and Kharjo jumped in, hamstringing it with their bright steel swords.

            Things only got worse for the dragon. As it lay there, slowly hacked to death by clumsy Nords, its fiery eyes sought out Dar’Myrrha’s. “Dovahkiin? Niid!” were its last words.

            Dragons, when they died, burst into flames and left only bones. Dar’Myrrha was surprised the energy rushed straight to her, filling a hunger she didn’t even know existed until she absorbed Mirmulnir’s soul. He tasted crunchy and a bit spicy.

            Then the sky shook with thunder as old men called her to a great peak.

            Dar’Myrrha had better pray to Khenarthi, because she was going to need wings to get up there.


	3. The Cat Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dar'Myrrha, only she has purple eyes (because why not a Mary Sue cat?)


	4. The Thane Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Dar’Myrrha couldn’t exactly fault Jarl Balgruuf for being flabbergasted. She herself was still reeling from the news that she, a humble Alfiq from Elseweyr, was a hero of prophecy fated to defeat the dragons. One of the Nords had dubbed her ‘Dragon Cat’, which is what the fairest race would have called her, and the name went through the guard like fire through dry grass.

            They sat at Balgruuf’s table, one of his servants having placed a soft cushion on the table for her, and the Jarl was sampling some of his own mead. Kharjo and Khayla had been permitted to enter after Dar’Myrrha explained they were the caravan’s guards and therefore her friends; she could see Balgruuf’s mind working behind the shock and the mead. Whiterun might just be the first city in Skyrim that allowed Khajiit entrance past its gates.

            After two straight flagons of mead, Balgruuf finally spoke, wiping his mouth. For a Nord, he had exquisite table manners, none of their belching and farting and scratching themselves. He was also very well-dressed in deep indigo silk robes with a white fox-fur mantle, golden jewellery that was substantial and not gaudy, and neatly groomed beard and pale-yellow hair with threads of silver. The Khajiit carpets on his floors were better quality than she expected from a Nord, though not the best. Maybe she and Ri’saad could change that.

            “I have read about the Alfiq in passing,” he said in a deep, drawling baritone. “I have seen stranger things in my time than a talking feline. But for you to be Dragonborn… That has to be direct intervention from the gods.”

            Dar’Myrrha nodded. “This one is disappointed she was not given wings. How can this one kill dragons if she has no wings? She does not wish to accuse the god-cats of overlooking something but…”

            Balgruuf smiled crookedly. “I can’t provide wings but I can provide legs.”

            He gestured and a tall, buxom Nord warrior-woman with long black hair stepped into view. “This is my niece Lydia. She is a trained warrior. Where you lack in muscle, she can provide.”

            Lydia smiled. “You’re very pretty, Dar’Myrrha.”

            Dar’Myrrha preened a little. “This one thanks you.”

            “I intend to make you a Thane of Whiterun – nobility,” Balgruuf continued. “Your Khajiit kin may enter the city walls and trade freely. Lydia will be your huscarl. If you want, there’s a house called Breezehome that is for sale.”

            “Thane?” Kharjo asked in surprise. Because he wore armour and walked with a heavy stride as one of the Cathay-Raht, he was often permitted closer to the city or even inside a time or two.

            “Thane.” Balgruuf steepled his fingers with a sigh. “Whiterun is neutral in this damned civil war and with the dragons flying around, I want to keep it that way. Dar’Myrrha is the Dragonborn, and is such an unexpected Dragonborn that it may keep the vultures from my city a little while longer.”

            “If they are such trouble to you, Dar’Myrrha is very good at sneaking inside and setting fire to things,” she offered.

            Balgruuf’s smile was thin. “If I wanted someone assassinated, Thane, I’d hire the professionals. Unexplained fires could backlash on me.”

            “The offer is open. Dar’Myrrha most graciously accepts your offer as Thane.” She was a noble. Mother Cat have mercy on them all.

            The subsequent feast was impressive by anyone’s standards, the caravan invited inside to join in. Balgruuf and Ri’saad had much in common as they lamented the effect of the civil war on trade while Kharjo and Lydia talked about fighting. Farengar, the court wizard, was discussing dragons with Ma’randru-jo while Atahbah sat miserably in the corner, probably missing moon sugar. Dar’Myrrha herself listened. Nord politics was… interesting.

            When it was over, the Jarl allowed them to rest in his hall, the tables pulled away and fat bedrolls laid out. Dar’Myrrha curled on a soft nest of blankets by the fire. Perhaps being the Dragon Cat wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	5. The Shouting Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Dar’Myrrha is somewhere between Adept and Expert in Destruction with all appropriate spells and perks.

 

Lydia’s right shoulder pauldron made for a comfortable perch for Dar’Myrrha as they walked through the aspen forests of the Rift. Kharjo, grateful for his moon amulet, accompanied them as an extra bodyguard. Ri’saad needed Ma’randru-jo as a mage back with the caravan, J’zargo was at the College and Ma’Tisha currently with Ahkari’s caravan, so only Kharjo could be spared.

            There had been encounters with bandits, predators and even a lone vampire looking for a snack. Frost, lightning and fire took care of them in order. Lydia and Kharjo’s swords helped sometimes.

            Ivarstead was a little village no Khajiit had ever been before. One of the guards walked up to them and said, “We don’t need no thieving cats here.”

            Kharjo snorted and assured him nothing would be stolen. He didn’t mention that it was because there was nothing to steal. Khajiit were tactful like that.

            _Softskins should take it as a compliment if Khajiit robs them,_ Dar’Myrrha mused as they walked towards the inn. _It means they are rich._

But softskins were rarely sensible.

            In the morning, it was a long climb up to High Hrothgar. Seven thousand steps, Balgruuf said. Most of them were under snow because Dar’Myrrha only counted four hundred or so. There were wolves and a troll. Lydia stopped and skinned everything because she explained to the Khajiit it was disrespectful to Kyne, their name for Khenarthi, to just kill things and not make use of them. Kharjo’s ears laid back. He would be skinning their kills in the future. No one needed to anger the Wind Cat.

            High Hrothgar was solidly built. Given that the Thu’um could kill with a Word, extra reinforcement was needed in buildings where Tongues lived. The Greybeards served Khenarthi, who gave the Nords the Voice as to kill the dragons the first time around. They must have missed a few for them to come back.

            “Welcome, Dragonborn,” greeted the only Greybeard who could talk and not pulverise someone. “I am Master Arngeir.”

            “This one is Dar’Myrrha,” was her reply as she leapt from Lydia’s shoulder. “You serve the Wind Cat?”

            The building began to shake as one of the other Greybeards, taller than Arngeir, tried to stifle his sniggers with his mouth.

            “Let us taste of your Voice,” Arngeir said once he stopped looking shocked.

            One of Balgruuf’s people had brought back a Word of Dragonish. Mirmulnir had known it and so therefore Dar’Myrrha did. “YOL!”

            Greybeards, it seemed, were flammable so Dar’Myrrha cast a frost spell on Arngeir to put out the fire.

            Lydia and Kharjo were practically holding each other up as they laughed uncontrollably. The tall Greybeard was still trying not to laugh and the other two looked amused. Arngeir did not. Fair enough. Khajiit had just set him on fire.

            She learned two more Words of a Shout – Fus and Ro – and the first one of a third. Then Arngeir told her she had to go to a swampy place, go into a tomb and retrieve something called the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.

            Dar’Myrrha sighed. She needed divine guidance from the god-cats, not some quest to fetch something!

            But maybe it was part of a greater plan, so she nodded.

            Being the Dragon Cat was more complicated than she realised.


	6. The Mannerly Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Hjaalmarch was perhaps the ugliest place Dar’Myrrha had ever been. It was a swamp. There was snow and fog. Vampires attacked them. Sunlight and warmth were probably illegal here. Why did the founder of the Greybeards have to be buried in this place? Did Nords have something against a pretty mausoleum with flowers or something?

            Morthal was the depressing capital of a depressing place. “Weird bog full of weird bog people,” was how Lydia described it. Dar’Myrrha decided Lydia was smarter than she looked.

            For some unknown reason, a vampire was trying to take over Morthal. Why? If Dar’Myrrha were the Jarl of such a place, she would ask the Nords’ equivalent of a Mane to give her somewhere better to live. But people had died in the fire set by an insane vampire turned by the vampire woman who was trying to take over Morthal for another vampire who was really too lazy to do his own work. Only a vampire would want to rule this place. Anyone else with a bit of sense probably ran away.

            So Dar’Myrrha, Kharjo and Lydia had to kill lots of vampires even before they could find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. But the little ghost girl got to sleep. That was good.

            The next day, Dar’Myrrha and the others got to kill necromancers, draugr (Nords who were too stupid to know they were dead) and spiders. She learned the Word of a Shout that could turn her intangible. That could be useful. She needed to find a useful dragon soul.

            However, someone had stolen the Horn from Ustengrav and told her to visit Riverwood. If they knew she was the Dragonborn, why didn’t they contact her before she had to come to Ustengrav? Khajiit had to accept some people had absolutely no manners.

            So another slog through the swamp, back down past Rorikstead and onwards to Whiterun. Except a dragon was trying to eat the horses at the stable. Three guards were already dead.

            “YOL!” Dar’Myrrha yowled as the dragon landed on the roof. It singed him and he fell off.

            Kharjo was already sprinting around the back with the speed only a Cathay-Raht could manage. By the time Lydia and Dar’Myrrha got around there, the poor dragon was huddling underneath the blows from Kharjo’s mace.

            “It is very rude to set guards on fire!” the Khajiit was yelling, punctuating each word with a blow. “Must this one teach you manners?”

            Dar’Myrrha called Lightning Bolt on the dragon, holding it there as he roared in pain. Lydia stepped between the Alfiq and the dragon, smashing her shield into his snout. That was clever; if he couldn’t Shout…

            The dragon died and Dar’Myrrha absorbed his soul. Of course, this was when the rest of the Whiterun city guard arrived under Irileth’s command.

            “Another dead lizard. Good,” the Dunmer said in satisfaction. “Well done, all of you.”

            Dar’Myrrha bowed her head graciously. One must be polite when being thanked.

            She decided to wait until tonight to see this person who stole the horn. Most humans slept at night. She would decide once she had the horn if she would speak to them. They’d been very rude so far.

            Khajiit tried to be polite. It wasn’t their fault if other races were rude.


	7. The Storm Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The Sleeping Giant didn’t have a room but it did have a cellar concealed in a wardrobe in the nicest room. So Dar’Myrrha waited until everyone was asleep before creeping soundlessly in, breathing “Feim”, walking through the panel and downstairs to where the Horn lay on a map with ‘Kynesgrove’ circled in red ink. A bit of Telekinesis dragged the Horn to her mouth, which she carried in the strap as she became a ghost and went upstairs. Then it was a matter of sneaking back out to the street where Lydia and Kharjo waited.

            “This one will not speak to the thief just yet,” Dar’Myrrha purred after Lydia put the Horn in her satchel. “It was in a cellar attached to the nicest room in the inn.”

            “Delphine,” Lydia said decisively. “She’s an ex-adventurer.”

            “An ex-adventurer who is trying to force the Dragonborn to meet with her?” Kharjo asked. “This one is doubtful she was just an adventurer.”

            “She is fairly shady in her way but I think my uncle uses her sometimes, so he’s said nothing.” Lydia shrugged. “Back to the city or to High Hrothgar?”

            “To High Hrothgar. Khajiit has no wish to keep the Greybeards waiting.” Dar’Myrrha chuckled. “Maybe Arngeir has forgiven this one for setting him on fire.”

            They walked through the night until they came to a bandit camp. Dar’Myrrha used frost this time because the autumn was coming and the trees would be dry. Turning the forest around Ivarstead into an inferno would not endear her to the locals. Kharjo said some rude words about having to remove frozen corpses from bedrolls. Kharjo had no sense of gratitude sometimes.

            In the morning, they reached Ivarstead and Kharjo offered to carry up dried fish for Klimmek, a man who gave the Greybeards food. It was a quiet walk, none of the wolves, bears or trolls returning, and by late afternoon they were at High Hrothgar.

            “Dragonborn, you’ve returned!” Arngeir said, his voice only a little cold.

            “This one is sorry for setting you on fire,” Dar’Myrrha said contritely.

            “Most Dragonborn learn Unrelenting Force first,” Arngeir said, his chill manner thawing a little. “It is easier to withstand a push than a fire.”

            “Here’s the Horn, Master Arngeir,” Lydia said, handing over the Horn. “Do you know why an adventurer would go to the trouble of stealing it and making the Dragonborn meet them?”

            “Not that this one did that,” Dar’Myrrha assured him as his eyes narrowed. “Dar’Myrrha used a ghost Shout to steal it back.”

            Arngeir laughed. “I would have given much to see that person’s face. They were, you see, a Blade.”

            “One of the Septim Emperors’ bodyguards?” Lydia asked in confusion. “I thought the Thalmor killed them all.”

            “Apparently not,” Arngeir said dryly. Then he sighed. “The Blades, at the best of times, were ruthless minions of a Dragonborn ruler. At their worst, they actively drew the Dovahkiinne away from the path of wisdom to acquire power for secular reasons.”

            “You seem familiar with them,” Kharjo noted.

            “I was one – as was Wulfgar – in a misspent youth,” Arngeir said gravely. “The Dragonborn may chart their own path and that path will likely contain violence. But to use the Thu’um to set oneself up as a ruler… That goes against the Way of the Voice.”

            “Khajiit have one ruler and it is the Mane, no matter what the Dominion may say,” Dar’Myrrha assured him. “This one cannot say that she would not help her kin free themselves from the Dominion with the Voice, but this one cannot be a ruler.”

            “I understand,” Arngeir said, sounding relieved. “The Thu’um has been used as a tool against oppression, like the Three Tongues did when they overthrew Alduin at the dawn of history.”

            He smiled as the other Greybeards filed in. “It is time to greet you as Dragonborn. Sit between us and we will begin.”

            Dar’Myrrha decided afterwards that the Greybeards would never talk around her again if she could help it. While she didn’t become jelly, she felt she could. It wasn’t pleasant.

            But she had to admit the greeting was very impressive: “Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it.”

            She really should stop by the Temple of Kynareth and thank the Wind Cat. Then work on dealing with the Hungry Cat Alduin. Dar’Myrrha was now the Storm Cat.


	8. The Wind Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The Temple of Khenarthi in Whiterun was a graceful building of silver-grey stone and stained-glass windows. Inside, it smelt of lavender and golden chimes rang constantly as the priests healed the sick.

            Dar’Myrrha padded gracefully into the main sanctum, her feet getting wet from the water feature that surrounded the altar. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” said the priestess on duty, grinding something with a marble mortar and pestle. It smelt acrid and fishy all at once. It must taste terrible.

            The priestess strained the horrible mess into a vial, which she promptly poured into the mouth of a sick toddler whose skin was splotched with horrible boils. She then wrapped the child’s limbs in wheat and blue mountain flower poultices. A healing spell that soothed the worst of the boils followed.

            “It will take a couple days for him to heal properly, but I’ve gotten rid of the disease,” she told the child’s parents, a Nord couple in rough garb, gently. “Keep giving him liquids like juice and broth, by tonight he should be able to eat soft-boiled eggs or gruel. Don’t forget to boil his bedding and clothing clean. In fact, might be a good idea to do every soft furnishing in the house.”

            The parents nodded gratefully, the father crying. “Thank you, Priestess!”

            They picked up the sick little boy and left. Once they were gone, the priestess scrubbed down the stone slab on which he’d rested with harsh lye soap and an astringent wash. Dar’Myrrha wrinkled her nose in distaste.

            “Dragonborn,” said the priestess as she put the rags in a cauldron over the nearby fire. “How may I help you?”

            Dar’Myrrha leapt up to the table to look the priestess in the eye. “This one thinks she should thank the Wind Cat because the Greybeards say the Voice comes from Khenarthi.”

            “It does,” the priestess confirmed, wiping down her hands with more astringent wash. “Akatosh – Bormahu to the dragons – decrees who has and hasn’t a dragon soul but it was Kyne – Kaan to the dragons – who persuaded Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah to teach the Thu’um to the first Tongues after giving them the capacity to Shout.”

            “This one thinks you know much about dragons,” Dar’Myrrha purred in satisfaction.

            “Not as much as you might think. Before I was given to Kynareth as a novice, I was a Blades initiate who used to listen to the loremasters tell stories about dragons.” She dried her hands and put that towel in with the boiling rags in the cauldron. “Anyone may pray to the Storm-Goddess at the altar. If you wish for the Goddess’s more direct favour, _that_ must be earned.”

            “A Blade tried to steal the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. This one stole it back,” Dar’Myrrha complained.

            “Delphine? I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall when she found out.” The priestess flashed a mischievous smile.

            “The Greybeards laughed,” Dar’Myrrha admitted.

            “I’m sure. The two orders have had a rivalry over who guides the Dovahkiinne for centuries – since Talos, in fact.” The priestess shrugged. “But that’s in the past. Do you wish to pray alone or be led in prayer?”

            Dar’Myrrha wrinkled her nose. “Does it matter?”

            “Truly? No. Khenarthi, Kyne, Kaan and Kynareth are names for a goddess who is as beyond mortal understanding as we are beyond the comprehension of an insect,” the priestess said. “I don’t know much on how the Khajiit venerate Her, but the Imperials tend to think of Her as the goddess of the calm air and tamed nature. Imperialised Nords have a similar viewpoint, though they also consider Her the Mother of Men and Beasts. Traditional Nords hold Her to be the Storm-Goddess, Shor’s warrior-widow, Mother of Men and Beasts, the one Who breathes us into the world and back to Her at life’s end, and the Guide of Souls to Sovngarde.”

            “Which one is true?” Dar’Myrrha asked, ears laid back in consternation.

            “All of them.”

            “That is not helpful.”

            “Only the foolish expect faith to be simple or helpful. The gods gave us brains to use. It’s a sin not to.” The priestess smiled. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me, Dragonborn.”

            She walked out and Dar’Myrrha looked up at the altar of Khenarthi. “This one does not know what to do now,” she admitted unhappily. “Please, Wind Cat, just a little sign.”

            There was nothing but the wind that blew open a window. Through it, Dar’Myrrha could hear two guards talking about the posting in Riverwood.

            She sighed, bowed to the altar, and walked out. Maybe Kharjo and Lydia would have some ideas.


	9. The Unwanted Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

One of the few things that kept Delphine going through the hard years after the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple was the idea of having a Dragonborn to guide. She had spent the last twenty-five years preparing for it, from robbing the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller to force contact to hiring bandits to steal Lucan’s golden claw in the knowledge that the Dragonborn would be sent after the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow by Farengar at her request. An agent was set up in the Thalmor Embassy in case intelligence needed to be located. Who knew what the goldskins knew, after all?

            Delphine was a planner and a master strategist. She was certain she’d covered all contingencies.

            The one she’d never considered, never planned on, never even imagined in her wildest dreams or worst nightmares was sitting on the Sleeping Giant’s doormat calmly licking a paw as a Cathay-Raht in heavy steel plate and Balgruuf’s bastard niece stood behind her with hands pointedly on hilts.

            The Dragonborn was an Alfiq Khajiit, one with black, grey and white sabre cat markings and violet eyes that gleamed with far too much intelligence for a glorified housecat.

            “This one wishes to hire the attic room, even though this one knows you have none,” the Khajiit purred.

            “Come inside,” Delphine said unhappily. Was the cat trying to get her killed?

            Once they were inside her cellar, Delphine blinked as she realised the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was gone.

            “This one returned it to the Greybeards,” the Alfiq said smugly. “What do you want from this one, Blade?”

            Delphine throttled down a burst of rage. She was outnumbered and unarmed, with the Cathay-Raht standing between her and the dai-katana on its rack.

            “Well played,” she conceded grudgingly. “I wanted to make contact because the dragons just aren’t back, they’re being resurrected. Only a Dragonborn can keep them dead permanently. Are you the Dragonborn?”

            The Alfiq retorted with a “FUS!” that set Delphine on her ass.

            “Proof enough?” she asked.

            “Yes,” Delphine said, getting to her feet. “I’ve been tracking the dragon resurrections through the Old Holds. The next one is Kynesgrove just outside of Windhelm.”

            The Khajiit inclined her head. “This one is Dar’Myrrha. My kinsman is Kharjo and my huscarl is Lydia.”

            “Good to meet you.” Delphine tried to inject a little good humour into her voice.

            “Did not one of the Stormcloaks rescue you?” Kharjo asked Dar’Myrrha.

            “Yes. Bjarni and Ralof.” Dar’Myrrha licked her lips. “This one should thank them for their help.”

            “I’ll come with you to Kynesgrove,” Delphine told her, “But not to Windhelm.”

            “This one thought the Blades were meant to serve to the Dragonborn?” Kharjo countered.

            “I’m happy to do that, but not get myself killed needlessly. Bjarni’s mother doesn’t like me and I don’t like her. I’d rather not get my head piked at Windhelm’s gates, thanks.”

            Dar’Myrrha smiled. “Do not worry. This one will protect you.”

            Be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it. Delphine was now wishing she was somewhere else.


	10. The Guest Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. For those who regularly read my work, I decided to delete three stories as I was getting characters and events mixed up - the joys of AUs. Rewrites are possible, but Nan Imperii, The Dragon Cat and Vu Drun are my focus until the end of semester. Thanks for bearing with me.

 

Two dragons and one Word later, Dar’Myrrha could Shout frost. Sahloknir was now a skeleton stuck awkwardly halfway in his old burial pit and she, Delphine, Lydia and Kharjo were now surrounded by Stormcloaks. Two of whom were Bjarni and Ralof.

            “You’re… the… Dragonborn,” the latter said slowly, shock painting every syllable.

            “Yes,” Dar’Myrrha said with a sigh. She hoped he wasn’t going to be silly about things. She liked Bjarni and Ralof.

            “This is just too good,” Bjarni said with a grin. “How did the Greybeards take it?”

            “Well. After Arngeir got over this one setting him on fire with a Shout.” Behind her, Delphine forgot herself enough to snigger.

            “The cat talks,” said a thinner, slightly shorter version of Bjarni who had to be his little brother Egil.

            “Yes. This one sees why you serve S’rendarr the Runt Cat because you are the smallest of the litter,” Dar’Myrrha said, perhaps a little more sarcastically than she should have.

            Some of the Stormcloaks stifled snickers and sniggers with their hands to their mouths. Ralof laughed a little nervously and Bjarni just burst out with one of his great booming laughs.

            Egil’s eyes narrowed. “Runt Cat?”

            “S’rendarr is the Runt Cat, for does not the runt of a litter need mercy?” Dar’Myrrha explained.

            “The Dragonborn is a talking housecat,” remarked one of the Stormcloaks, a rangy, greying man. “Why?”

            “The Alfiq are the cleverest and best at magic of the fairest race,” Dar’Myrrha explained gently. Nords were usually more stupid than malicious and if he fought with Bjarni, he mustn’t be too stupid. “Dragons are big. They will not notice Khajiit until it is too late.”

            “I told you, Leif, but you swore I was drunk,” Bjarni chided.

            Ralof swallowed and visibly collected himself. “It would be dishonourable if we did not offer the Dragonborn and her companions the hospitality of Windhelm,” he said.

            “I’ll stay here,” Delphine said quickly. “You know, to make sure the dragon’s dead.”

            Dar’Myrrha gave her a pointed look. “This one told you she could protect you from Sigdrifa, Delphine. You should trust this one and the honour of the Stormcloaks.”

            “Delphine,” Bjarni said softly. “Ho _ly_ shit.”

            “Why do I have a feeling we’ll need mead and snacks for this?” Lydia said to Kharjo.

            “Because it will be amusing?” Kharjo asked dryly.

            It wasn’t that far to Windhelm, a blocky and unattractive city, riding on Lydia’s pauldron. Egil was muttering prayers to the Runt Cat under his breath, Delphine was doing the same but to Talos, and Bjarni was just shaking his head. What had Delphine done to make this Sigdrifa so angry?

            Just inside the gates – there was a problem with Kharjo gaining entrance until Bjarni told the guard to step aside or join one of the camps in Imperial territory – there were two Nords abusing a Dunmer woman, accusing her of being a spy. They found something else to do when Bjarni told them to piss off or answer to his fist again. It was obvious that there were a good many very stupid Nords around here.

            “Windhelm is home to the stereotypical Nord,” Lydia murmured. “Racist, brutish and probably a little stupid.”

            “Why are Bjarni and Ralof so smart?” Dar’Myrrha asked.

            “Ralof’s actually a cousin. Technically, he’s exiled from Whiterun because he killed a pair of Thalmor agents. He should have been turned over to the Dominion but… well, Uncle Balgruuf couldn’t execute the man for a public service,” Lydia answered.

            “If your uncle hates the Thalmor so much, why does he not just join Ulfric?” Kharjo asked in confusion.

            “Meet them and you’ll understand why.”

            The Palace of the Kings lived up to its name in size but not in grandeur. Was good taste illegal in Windhelm or something?

            Inside, it was mostly cold grey stone, two long tables heaped with pewter and wooden crockery, and two sour-looking Nords in armour sitting on a dais flanked by braziers. It was only by resemblance to Bjarni and Egil that Dar’Myrrha realised they were their parents. Even Egil had a bit more warmth to him.

            “The dragon at Kynesgrove is dead,” Bjarni announced, his voice rolling out like thunder into the hall. “The Dragonborn Dar’Myrrha, her huscarl, her kinsman and the Blade Delphine Revanche gave us assistance and we offered them hospitality in return.”

            Dar’Myrrha jumped down from Lydia’s pauldron and walked up to the dais. “This one is honoured to meet you,” she purred.

            Their expressions went slack with shock. Sigdrifa was the quickest to recover, her icy sea-green eyes narrowing.

            “Is this a prank of yours, Bjarni?”

            Since she was a Nord who liked the cold, Dar’Myrrha Shouted “FO” and covered her in hoarfrost.

            Sigdrifa shook herself free of the frost as snickers, sniggers and chuckles were quickly muffled by the Stormcloaks.

            “If it’s any consolation, she knocked me on my ass,” Delphine said into the silence. “Look, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but maybe we can agree Rustem was a prick and work together?”

            Sigdrifa nodded tightly. “Fine.”

            Ulfric cleared his throat. “Somewhere, the gods are laughing at us all.”

            “Or maybe they are laughing at Alduin,” grated a grizzled old Nord in bearskins.

            “I would like to remind everyone that Dar’Myrrha is a Thane of Whiterun and therefore has diplomatic immunity in all the Holds of Skyrim,” Lydia announced calmly. “I am her huscarl and Kharjo is her kinsman.”

            “Has Balgruuf finally chosen a side then?” Ulfric asked, eyebrow rising.

            “No, because the dragons take precedence. We came to Kynesgrove because I determined the dragons are being resurrected by some big black one,” Delphine said.

            “Alduin,” Bjarni said grimly. “Big as a house and black as night. He tried to kill us at Helgen.”

            “So it is the end times unless this… Khajiit… defeats Alduin,” Sigdrifa said, leaning back in her plain high-backed chair. Were cushions illegal in Windhelm?

            “We survived Helgen because of her magic,” Bjarni told his mother. “Alfiq are clever. You rarely see them outside of Elseweyr because few people can treat a talking housecat well.”

            “Alkosh chose this one to be the Dragon Cat because Alduin the Hungry Cat cannot see her,” Dar’Myrrha agreed. “It is not a burden this one would have chosen, but who else can match the fairest of races for cleverness and cunning?”

            As Ulfric’s face darkened, Dar’Myrrha remembered that most non-Khajiit didn’t like having their faults rubbed in their faces. Particularly if they were Nords. Few could laugh at themselves the way Bjarni could.

            “Nords overthrew Alduin, did they not?” she asked quickly. “Alduin, he sees a Nord with a Voice like thunder, he will come for him. Alkosh knows this, so he chose an Alfiq so that Alduin will not _her_ coming.”

            “I suppose so,” Ulfric conceded. “I will have pallets made ready for you and your people, Dragonborn. You have the freedom of the city for as long as you wish to say. See that you repay my hospitality with no theft.”

            Dar’Myrrha decided not to tell Ulfric she couldn’t see anything worth stealing. “Khajiit will not steal.”

            “Good.” Ulfric clapped his hands. “Break out the mead and we will raise a flagon to another dead dragon!”

            Dar’Myrrha was forced to accept that Bjarni and Ralof were truly the exemplars of their kind. No wonder Alkosh chose her instead of a Nord.


	11. The Burglar Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment and mentions of torture.

 

“You want this one to _what_?”

            It was obvious that close proximity to Nords had rendered Delphine insane, stupid or both because Dar’Myrrha did not just hear her suggest that the Khajiit burglarise the Thalmor Embassy where the notoriously evil Elenwen lived. There was a Khajiit cook there that Ri’saad supplied with moon sugar but otherwise, the caravans stayed well, well away from the place. Khajiit valued their lives, after all.

            “Look, the Thalmor have to know something about the dragons,” Delphine replied, her voice tight with frustration. Even though she and Sigdrifa agreed to let bygones be bygones after some past quarrel over a male, the two patently disliked each other and made the Palace of the Kings a difficult place to stay.

            “What is to know? Alduin is resurrecting them and Khajiit will kill them again until he learns otherwise.” Ulfric had been a Greybeard in his youth and explained what he knew of the World-Eater. Yes, Alduin truly was the Hungry Cat.

            “Elenwen was part of the Thalmor squad that besieged and destroyed Cloud Ruler Temple,” Sigdrifa answered, her harsh voice combining the worst parts of a croak and talking through the nose. “I know the Thalmor. They would have saved the archives for future reference.”

            “You two agree on something? Truly, this one is living in the end of days,” Dar’Myrrha said sarcastically.

            “The fact remains that if there’s anything left of the old Akaviri archives on dragons, Elenwen will have her hands on it,” Delphine said. “Unless you can resurrect Esbern, the loremaster who specialised in dragonlore, it’s going to be the best we can do.”

            Dar’Myrrha sighed. “Fine. But do not interfere. Khajiit make plans better than Blades.”

            She was gratified to discover that Bjarni had set up a cover identity a few years ago with a name that made everyone laugh but left her confused. When he explained the name ‘Ilak Tossinoff’ with a crude Cathay gesture for masturbation, she laughed too. What mattered was Ilak Tossinoff was a hearty Nord fur merchant who thought Talos was ridiculous, loved parties and wasn’t averse to dealing with the Thalmor on occasion.

            They left Windhelm with Bjarni ostensibly guiding them to Dawnstar; Dar’Myrrha decided not to enlighten his parents as to what they were doing. Ulfric and Sigdrifa were happy to let Khajiit take the risk but not their own flesh and blood. Bjarni felt otherwise.

            Just outside Dawnstar, Dar’Myrrha watched curiously as Bjarni reddened his hair with henna from Morrowind, braided it in a style that made him look a few years older, and shaved his cheeks. His clothing was comfortable and practical, but dyed in the rich indigos and golds of the Dunmer, and he wore silver jewellery done in the Redguard style. Then he adopted a slouch that stuck out his gut a little to simulate a paunch. A truly magnificent cape of white bearskin pinned with a silver brooch finished the outfit.

            “This one thinks you are wasted as a Stormcloak,” Kharjo noted.

            “Some of us worship the Talos who brought people of all races together,” Bjarni said quietly.

            They travelled from Dawnstar to Solitude by boat with a load of furs, Bjarni alighting at the docks with a bellow to one Vittoria Vicci who ran the East Empire Trade Company. The fine furs, the product of Stormcloak scouts who ran into the beasts, sold quickly and ‘Ilak’ gushed about missing the last party held by Elenwen. Vittoria chuckled and promised him an invitation.

            Over the next day, Dar’Myrrha and Kharjo scouted the Thalmor Embassy. Getting in would be easy for her, but she had to assume that the Altmer knew of an Alfiq’s abilities and plan accordingly. To that end, Kharjo put on the rough homespun of a labourer and whined at the back door for work. The butler, one Malborn, agreed as there was a party the next day.

            Bjarni left an hour before dusk to arrive ‘fashionably late’. He quickly made friends with one Razalan, a drunken Redguard, and was ushered in by the guards. As the two joked about brandy, sympathising with the guards who couldn’t have a drink, Dar’Myrrha slipped through the gates. She’d covered herself in white clay to hide her black and grey markings. It would hurt to get out but better dirty than dead.

            Bjarni was the distraction and Kharjo busied himself in the back corridors of the front part of the embassy. Dar’Myrrha made her way directly to the solar every well-bred womer of Alinor possessed. Unsurprisingly, it was next to the prison. Elenwen was one very, very sick person.

            There were files, including one on the Blade Delphine wished was alive, a Nord named Esbern. He was alive and in Riften. Good.

            She used Telekinesis to open up the door to the prison and was treated to the sight of someone interrogating a Thief. Dar’Myrrha cast Chain Lightning at the two guards until they were dead, then cast the most powerful Open Lock spell she knew on the door. “Come with this one if you want to live,” she said.

            “I’ve lost it,” mumbled the Breton. “I’m hearing a cat talk.”

            “This one’s name is Dar’Myrrha, the Dragon Cat, and they want to find this Esbern,” she told him. “Khajiit is not lying. The two guards tormenting you are dead, yes?”

            “Ye-es,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t know why they want Esbern? He’s old and crazy.”

            “He knows dragons.” She cast Open Lock again and he fell out of his shackles.

            The door upstairs opened and a roughed-up Bjarni, Kharjo and the butler Malborn were frog-marched in by three guards. “We have you surrounded, Blade,” taunted the chief of them. “You will die a slow death.”

            Bjarni retorted with something that… well, it was Altmeris, but he more or less said that the guard had skin like mouldy cheese. Not much of an insult as they went, but two of the guards sniggered and the insulted one removed one hand to punch the Nord in the face.

            He got a headbutt that broke his nose and the grip on Bjarni. It seemed Bjarni knew some magic, because he immediately threw fire at the guard holding Kharjo, leaving the mer to instinctively guard his face. Kharjo grabbed the third and broke his neck with a massive heave; Malborn escaped from a nerveless grasp.

            After that, it was a formality. There was a trapdoor – an escape route for Elenwen, no doubt – and they only had to get past a troll to escape.

            “I owe you one,” Etienne, the Breton said as they limped down the hill, the Embassy on fire behind them. Dar’Myrrha couldn’t resist. They had hurt her friends.

            “Help us find Esbern,” Bjarni said hoarsely. “He was a Blade once.”

            “I hope your Khajiit friends know how to hide,” Malborn said grimly. “Elenwen will want vengeance.”

            “With the intelligence this one got from the embassy, Ulfric will owe us,” Kharjo said. “Bjarni, the Thalmor hurt your father, and they lied to him because they knew he would eventually rebel against the Empire.”

            Bjarni’s fists clenched. “They will die screaming.”

            Kharjo looked over his shoulder. “From the sounds of it, some did.”

            Dar’Myrrha could only hope they’d be able to warn the caravans in time.


	12. The Frost-Breathing Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This story will be updated every Tuesday since I’m back at uni next week. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture and imprisonment.

 

Etienne had the worst injuries while Bjarni, Malborn and Kharjo mostly had bruises, so Dar’Myrrha focused on healing the Breton as they caught a boat from Solitude to Windhelm. The boat’s owner was a sympathiser of the Stormcloaks, so it was safe enough to trust him according to Bjarni. He even had a son at the College of Winterhold, one Onmund. “Spends all his time with some J’zargo,” the fisherman remarked.

            “J’zargo is this one’s brother,” Dar’Myrrha said in between mouthfuls of magicka potion.

            “Khajiit come in many varieties,” Bjarni explained as Ragnar’s eyes widened. “We mostly see Cathay like J’zargo or Cathay-Raht like Kharjo, but there’s some who almost look like wood elves and well… Dar’Myrrha’s an Alfiq.”

            “It depends on the moons,” she added.

            “It’s a strange world,” Ragnar finally observed.

            “If the Thalmor know where Esbern is, we have maybe two days at most to reach the Rift once we’re at Windhelm,” Bjarni said once they were somewhere past the statue of Azurah. “We’re going to have to use horse relays at every Stormcloak outpost in the Old Holds.”

            “You will be staying home,” Dar’Myrrha said firmly. “This one will have enough explaining to your parents as to why you were injured. She does not wish to do more.”

            Bjarni shook his head. “If you’re with me, no one will argue. Some of our outposts are pretty isolated.”

            Kharjo stretched slightly. “This one is faster than a horse. It is best we go with Etienne, for the Ratway belongs to the Thieves’ Guild.”

            “I’m not up to the trip but I can write you a note,” the Thief promised. “We’ve got identification codes.”

            They reached Windhelm and Bjarni reluctantly went to report to his parents while Etienne found himself a Guild ally where he could lay low and Malborn took shelter in the Grey Quarter. The Thief gave them a note and a password that would have the Guild willing to listen to them – for a price.

            Thank the gods Kharjo had robbed the Thalmor Embassy of several expensive jewels and potions.

            It was here that the Cathay-raht proved his speed and endurance. They crossed the volcanic Aalto in six hours at the ground-eating lope of a warrior, reaching Darkwater Crossing by sunrise. A cat nap in the shade of some aspen trees refreshed them and they were on the outskirts of Riften by noon, where Ahkari had set up camp.

            “It is good to see you,” the Cathay said warmly as they approached. “Is it true Dar’Myrrha can eat dragons?”

            “Yes,” Kharjo said. “However, we have angered the Thalmor greatly.”

            They related the story to Ahkari, the shrewdest and least morally scrupulous leader of Ri’saad’s caravans, and when it was done the Cathay pursed her lips. “It cannot be helped. What we must hope for is that you killed most of the Thalmor there and that those who survive cannot identify you. The caravans will tighten our security.”

            “On the upside, Ulfric will owe us,” Dar’Myrrha pointed out. “Seek out Bjarni – he is intelligent for a Nord.”

            Ahkari chuckled. “This one knows how to contact Bjarni. He has been a customer of the caravans often.”

            “That explains his civilised behaviour,” observed Kharjo.

            They spent the rest of the afternoon trading things with Ahkari and Dar’Myrrha discovered that Ri’saad had made a deal with Tonilia, the Guild’s fence, therefore opening up a new market for caravan and Guild alike. Just before sunset, when the gates would close, they bid farewell and made their way to the front entrance.

            “Before you enter, you have to pay the visitor’s tax,” said the guard.

            “Gjuki, you dickhead, they’re with me,” Etienne said acidly.

            The guard winced. “Etienne! I heard you’d disappeared!”

            “The Thalmor. Spread word the bastards imprisoned and tortured a member of the Guild and might be poking in the Ratway,” the Breton ordered.

            Gjuki nodded. “Your disappearance was the catalyst for a few things. I’ll keep it simple: Brynjolf’s the new Guildmaster.”

            “Praise Lady Luck!” Etienne said fervently. “What happened to Mercer?”

            In the twilight, Gjuki’s expression was grim. “Dead. He’d betrayed us all.”

            “This one is pleased you know how to deal with traitors,” Kharjo noted.

            Gjuki went and unlocked the gate. “Better get in before Hjorolf notices something.”

            Riften stank of unwashed humanity, rank canal water and rotting wood. In the marketplace, a handsome auburn-haired Nord was packing up some bottles when Etienne approached him. “Guildmaster,” he said quietly. “We have a situation.”

            “Lad, you look like you’ve been for a visit to Northwatch Keep,” Brynjolf (who else could it be) said with some surprise.

            “Close enough. The Thalmor are tracking that crazy old coot Esbern. Turns out he was a Blades loremaster.”

            Brynjolf shoved his bottles into the sack with some force. “I’m guessing the white cat with the purple eyes is the Dragonborn?”

            “Yes,” Dar’Myrrha confirmed. “You are well informed.”

            “An ignorant Thief is a dead one, lass,” Brynjolf said grimly. “Come with me.”

            They followed him around the back to where an elaborate tomb was; he pressed the central circle of the shadowmark on it and the coffin slid back to reveal stairs. “Impressive,” Kharjo said.

            “Gallus always put his money where it counted,” Brynjolf said with a distant sorrow.

            “I have some loot from the Thalmor Embassy – the Dragonborn, her cousin, some butler and Bjarni fucking Ulfricsson himself were running a dodge to steal their intelligence on the dragons and the Blades,” Etienne reported. “Bit of a shame Bjarni’s a Stormcloak. He was doing a good swindle and set up some Redguard as the shill until Jarl Elisif recognised him as Ulfric’s son.”

            “Bjarni’s probably the only one of that family worth the effort to bury,” Brynjolf said flatly.

            Dar’Myrrha and Kharjo exchanged looks. “You do not like the Stormcloaks?”

            “I was orphaned in the Markarth Incident,” was all Brynjolf said as he led them through a cistern.

            “Brynjolf, what the hell?” asked a black-haired Nord woman.

            “Sapphire, round up the muscle and start clearing the Warrens corridor by corridor. If it isn’t one of ours, bring it here. If it resists, kill it. If it’s a Thalmor, _definitely_ kill it. They took Etienne and tortured him.”

            “Bastards,” Sapphire said quietly as she reached for a pair of serrated ebony daggers. “Thrynn, Garthar, with me.”

            Two surly Nords joined her, both of them wearing the same segmented leather armour as some of the others, and they left the cistern.

            “We’ll be taking the quick way to Esbern once I’ve gotten into my Guild leathers,” Brynjolf promised as he removed his quilted coat. “I thought he was insane… until the dragons showed up.”

            “This one is trying her best,” Dar’Myrrha promised.

            “I’d have paid good money to see Ulfric’s face when he found out you were the Dragonborn,” Brynjolf remarked as he changed.

            “He and his wife were fairly shocked. This one had to use Frost Breath on Sigdrifa to prove what she was because they thought Khajiit was one of Bjarni’s pranks.” Dar’Myrrha sighed. “There could be trouble. This one set fire to the embassy on the way out because of what was done to Etienne and others.”

            “Don’t worry, lass. By the time we’re through, a lot more Thalmor will improve life by the leaving of it,” Brynjolf assured her. “Question – can you defend yourself?”

            “This one is a mage who can breathe frost and fire,” she told him.

            Brynjolf grinned evilly. “This should be good.”

            They entered the Warrens, which was apparently worse than the Ratway, and by the time they arrived at Esbern’s impressively chained door they’d passed five dead Altmer with two more dying at the Thieves’ feet. “Go away, I know nothing!” insisted a plummy, Cyrod-educated voice.

            “Khajiit will handle this,” Dar’Myrrha told them. “FEIM!”

            Esbern, a rather sad-looking Nord, nearly had a heart attack when a ghostly Alfiq entered the room. So she used Frost Breath on the bed to prove who she was once she could Shout again.

            “Delphine sent us,” she told him. “She is in Windhelm.”

            “That is assuming she and Sigdrifa have not killed each other by now,” Kharjo remarked dryly through the metal door.

            “It’s the end of days if they haven’t already,” Esbern said with a shaky laugh. With admirable speed, the Nord grabbed some books, food and a set of decent-looking mage robes.

            When they opened the door, three more dead Thalmor joined the pile in front of it, a fourth one with a gut wound gasping all he knew to a hard-faced Brynjolf.

            “Be careful, lass. The Thalmor have a couple Khajiit assassins on your tail,” Brynjolf warned after slitting the mer’s throat.

            Kharjo bared his teeth. “This one will show them how traitors are dealt with.”

            “Good.” Brynjolf gave a thin smile. “Feel free to come do business with us again.”

            Dar’Myrrha nodded. “This one will, she promises.”

 


	13. The Bodyguard Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“You bring shame to our people,” Kharjo said as the unknown female Khajiit died. Once she’d drawn an elven dagger, she died very quickly at the hands of the local guard without a lifted paw from him or Dar’Myrrha. That was a relief. He hated to kill his people, but the talons of the Thalmor were sunk deep into them. It would take much cunning and probably Dar’Myrrha’s dragon-voice to flush the influence out.

            “Why did she attack you?” asked one of the guards, dressed as a Stormcloak commander in bearskins.

            “This one is the bodyguard of the Dragonborn, who has visited much sorrow upon the Thalmor,” Kharjo answered proudly. “They fear the Dragon Cat and what she will do to them.”

            The commander nodded. “Aye. I had a feeling she was. Bjarni sent down word you were to be trusted, so…”

            “This one is a warrior, not a thief,” Kharjo assured him. It was politer than saying no one really wanted to rob a few Nords of their smelly furs and stinking mead.

            “I see you’re acquainted with the Stormcloaks,” Esbern observed as they made their way to the gates.

            “They’ve been more helpful than the Empire,” Dar’Myrrha remarked. “They have their issues, but Khajiit will take all the help she can get.”

            It was a long carriage ride to Windhelm. Kharjo would have made better time carrying them both but Esbern was a rickety old man with breathing problems from living in a sewer. Yet the Thalmor had still found him.

            If the wind off the Sea of Ghosts was cold, the Palace of the Kings was colder with the hostility between Sigdrifa and Delphine. Kharjo wondered why they were caught up so much with a man who had insulted them both; they should join forces, hunt him down and kill him. Softskins were a strange lot and Nords the strangest of all.

            Esbern was soon wrapped in a bearskin by a hot fire, a cup of warm wine in his hands. “The answers will lie in the Reach,” he was telling Dar’Myrrha. “Karthspire holds the Akaviri fortress known as Sky Haven Temple.”

            “The Forsworn have no love for Nords and even less for your family, Esbern,” Delphine observed.

            “Given what Stormcloaks did to them, can you fault them?” Dar’Myrrha pointed out. “This one will try negotiation. This one has no quarrel with Forsworn.”

            “Or you could just kill them,” Sigdrifa suggested. “They are Daedra-worshipping barbarians.”

            “One of those Daedra-worshipping barbarians was your mother,” Esbern chided. “Knowing Catriona, she’s probably a Hagraven by now.”

            One of the Stormcloaks, the blond one who sometimes worked for Bjarni, stifled a laugh. “Explains a lot,” was all he said.

            If looks could have killed, Sigdrifa’s glare should have dropped him dead. “It doesn’t matter.”

            “But it does,” Delphine said grimly. “I know how to contact the Forsworn.”

            “Of course you would,” Sigdrifa said sarcastically.

            “We might as well return to Whiterun. I need to settle affairs there and my contact lives in the city.” Delphine rose to her feet. “Thanks for the hospitality, Sigdrifa. I’ll stab Rustem for you the next time I see him.”

            Finally, the Blade was showing some common sense. Kharjo supposed there was hope for her.

            It was another long trip to Whiterun and Kharjo was glad to be out of the cold north. Whiterun was civilised by anyone’s standards and the Jarl had relaxed the prohibition on Khajiit entering the city. Out of courtesy, Ri’saad had passed the word through the caravans no one was to rob the man. Balgruuf was almost as clever as a stupid member of the fairest race.

             Delphine’s contact turned out to be a priestess of the Wind Cat, the same one who’d counselled Dar’Myrrha and who was related to Bjarni somehow, if the scent was correct. She greeted Esbern with a smile, listened quietly to Delphine and sent out a mage message within the hour. Dar’Myrrha went along to check on Lydia and returned with the news the caravan had bought Breezehome and were living there when in Whiterun.

            Kharjo touched his moon amulet. Things were going well. May it continue to be so.

            By day’s end, the priestess – named Hawk for the sacred bird of the Wind Cat among the Nords – returned with an answer. “Go to Markarth and do the Forsworn a service,” was the message. “You will know the task when it presents itself to you.”

            Kharjo sighed. Another long trip away from the caravan. Azurah have mercy on them all.


	14. The Angry Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and imprisonment.

 

“Look, Delphine, I don’t like it any more than you do. But we need to access Karthspire and I’m not up to facing a camp full of Forsworn, Hagravens and Briarhearts!”

            Dar’Myrrha sighed. “You two will go to Rorikstead and wait for word. This one will take Lydia and Kharjo to speak with the Forsworn in Markarth.”

            She was never so happy to leave a pair of people behind. Delphine seemed to think the Dragonborn should leap at her word and Esbern was just depressing to be around with his dire talk of prophecies only being hope. Dar’Myrrha knew she had a difficult task ahead of her. She didn’t need to hear constantly about the consequences of failure!

            The green-gold grasslands of Whiterun faded into the wiry grey-green grass, storm-grey mountains and thin soil of the Reach. They followed the roads and came to an inn called Old Hroldan. Talos apparently slept there and on a whim, Dar’Myrrha chose to sleep in the bed he supposedly used.

            Waking up to a ghost calling her Hjalti and wanting his sword wasn’t on the to-do list. But when she used Clairvoyance, she saw it wasn’t too far away, and promised to return it to him.

            It was in a Forsworn camp and the local Hagraven wasn’t too keen on talking. So Dar’Myrrha Shouted “YOL!” at the feathered fiend, who quickly became roast bird-woman, and the other Forsworn showed almost as much intelligence as a Khajiit by removing themselves. Kharjo and Lydia found the sword and some good loot, and so they returned to Old Hroldan Inn, where the ghost was calmly drinking mead.

            “This one hopes this is the sword. She had to set fire to a Hagraven for it,” Dar’Myrrha said, a trifle crossly. They could have been to Markarth by now.

            “It is,” the ghost said with a smile. “I know you are not Hjalti Early-Beard, but you have a dragon’s soul and Voice.”

            “It is the time of the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn,” Lydia explained. “The gods knew Alduin was expecting a Nord or other human, so they chose Dar’Myrrha instead because she’s small and clever.”

            “Dah-Mir-Rah. A good name for a Dragonborn. I will await you in Sovngarde.” The ghost bowed and vanished, along with the sword.

            “That ghost knew Talos,” Lydia breathed in awe.

            “This one is not Talos,” Dar’Myrrha muttered. “Khajiit will not conquer the world.”

            It took another day to reach Markarth because some Forsworn near a goldmine decided to attack them and Dar’Myrrha was so unhappy – she was trying to deal with these people and they kept on attacking her! – that she cleared out the mine. Two miners who owned the place thanked her. It was clear the Reach’s wealth lay in ores.

            Not a minute inside the gates and a local tried to murder a Colovian woman. _Tried_ being the operative word because Dar’Myrrha set him on fire. The woman, Margret, thanked her and gave Kharjo an emerald-and-silver necklace in gratitude. Then a young Reachman approached them and asked to meet at the old Shrine of Talos. Assuming this was the task, they agreed.

            It wasn’t. The Forsworn were killing enemies of the Silver-Bloods and Eltrys, the young Reachman, wanted to know why.

            Several threats, fights, a breaking in and two deaths later, Dar’Myrrha was watching Lydia and Kharjo being dragged away to Cidhna Mine because the Silver-Bloods (and Forsworn) had framed them for the assassinations.

            Her eyes narrowed. This meant war.


	15. The Jail-Breaking Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, drug use, genocide and imprisonment.

 

“Don’t worry, Kharjo. Dar’Myrrha will get us out.”

            Madanach had to give the pretty Nord woman points for optimism. It had taken years of planning and suffering to bring them to the point where someone with a bit of power could help him liberate the Forsworn from Cidhna Mine. He knew it would require some fast talking to win the Dragonborn over but when the other alternative was death, he had some confidence in the outcome. Hadn’t the son of a minor clan from the north united the clans, Nord and Breton, once before? This time, he didn’t have the weakness of youthful naivety to burden him.

            The way the mine was structured, every word spoken in more than a whisper echoed back to his alcove. Thonar Silver-Blood had provided him with a rough bed and some privacy in return for Forsworn killers eliminating the family’s enemies. Silver-Blood enemies, more often than not, were also Forsworn enemies and so Madanach played along.

            He sighed and wrote down the escape route. If everything went wrong, some of his people could escape and a new High King could be chosen.

            “Khajiit is unhappy with you.”

            Madanach rubbed his watering eyes. Before him sat, prim and proper as a Nord matron, a white housecat with grey sabre cat markings and violet eyes.

            “Must Dar’Myrrha repeat herself? Khajiit is unhappy with you, King in Rags, for you have imprisoned her huscarl and cousin.”

            This had to be the Dar’Myrrha Lydia was talking about.

            Madanach coughed out some phlegm. “I apologise – the dust down here.”

            Dar’Myrrha watched him unblinking. “Talk fast, King in Rags, or the Dragon Cat will have to set you on fire.”

            “The Dragonborn is in another room and these walls are immune to fire.” Madanach nodded to the glassy scorch marks in the earthen walls. “I know from experience.”

            “Kharjo is not the Dragon Cat. This one is.” The housecat breathed “Feim” and became a ghost cat.

            “…Oh shit.”

            “Finally, King in Rags is realising how much danger he is in.” Dar’Myrrha returned to normal. “Why did you frame this one’s huscarl and cousin?”

            “Because I needed the help!” Madanach burst out. “Investigating this, Dragonborn, you’d have seen the misery my people endure at the hands of the Nords. If the Khajiit were suffering, wouldn’t you do whatever it took?”

            “This one has seen it,” Dar’Myrrha conceded. “This one is friends with several Stormcloaks and will be having words with them when she returns to Windhelm about it.”

            Madanach laughed harshly. “It was Ulfric and Sigdrifa who put me in here!”

            The Khajiit blinked once.

            The King in Rags took a deep shaky breath. “Igmund and the Empire dangled Talos worship in their faces and so they took the bait. Did the dirty work and then got thrown under the cart. Ulfric spent years in prison, as I have. I could almost feel for the man. But Sigdrifa… Her mother was one of us. Catriona, the Matriarch of Glenmoril Coven, born of Lost Valley Clan. She betrayed us and took our Nord children away to make them Stormcloaks!”

            “Yet Bjarni, her son, said he would be happy to negotiate with Forsworn,” Dar’Myrrha said slowly.

            Madanach chuckled roughly. “I hear Bjarni’s worth pissing on if he was on fire.”

            “He is a good man.” The Khajiit sighed. “Khajiit needs access to Sky Haven Temple to stop the Hungry Cat Alduin. Khajiit must bring Blades, including a Silver-Blood named Esbern, to translate something there to learn a Shout to bring down the Hungry Cat. If Khajiit releases you, will you let her and her friends leave in peace?”

            Madanach bowed his head. “I swear by the old gods of the Left and Right Hands that if you release me and mine, I will allow you and yours free passage in the Reach.”

            “Khajiit accepts your oath.” Dar’Myrrha sighed. “Now what?”

…

“Well, Dragon Cat, you’ve kept your end of the bargain,” Madanach, already sounding much healthier, said as they stood under scudding grey clouds in a redoubt overlooking Rorikstead. “Delphine and Esbern of the Blades will be left alone so long as they accompany you. None of us wish to go down the throat of the World-Eater.”

            “What will you do now?” Dar’Myrrha asked.

            “Consolidate. Some of the Matriarchs need reminding they have a High King. I know Catriona’s already begun the work in the southwest but it’s the central Reach that’s the problem.” Madanach smiled thinly. “You actually helped me by dealing with the Matriarch of Ghost-Sword Clan and the Kolskeggr raiders. They were… trouble.”

            He scratched his chin. “Once I have control of Kolskeggr, I might send Balgruuf a big fat bribe to acknowledge me as High King. He did so during the Great War. I might be able to sweet-talk Elisif…”

            Dar’Myrrha sighed. “This one already knows she cannot talk sense into Ulfric or Sigdrifa.”

            “Once I have the gold of Kolskeggr and the silver of Suaranach, I’ll be able to hire the Brotherhood to handle that little problem. The idea of turning Sigdrifa’s weapon against her is too delicious to pass up.” Madanach’s smile was now feral. “Whether she likes it or not, she is of the Reach royal blood and it is my duty as High King to chastise my wayward kinswoman.”

            “I think, your Majesty, half of Skyrim will sing praises to your name,” Lydia said fervently. As an apology for being imprisoned, Madanach had gifted her and Kharjo a pack of silver each from Cidhna Mine. For the sake of diplomacy, they’d forgiven the Forsworn.

            “I’ll take whatever I can get,” Madanach said with a grin. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

            He vanished back into the mists and Kharjo sighed. “This one almost feels sorry for the Nords.”

            “Only a few,” Dar’Myrrha said quietly. “This one will do the same for the Khajiit.”

            “Good,” Kharjo said. “Khajiit looks forward to the day.”


	16. The Vengeful Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of imprisonment and trauma.

 

“Sky Haven Temple is even more incredible than I realised,” Esbern enthused as they entered the dusty old Akaviri building. “Alduin’s Wall, a wonder of the Second Era…”

            The old man continued to talk and since Dar’Myrrha was paying attention, Kharjo let his feet wander up the stairs to the barracks. Lydia followed him, obviously bored with Esbern’s lecture too.

            “How are you coping?” she asked sympathetically.

            “As Khajiit, this one understands Madanach’s reasons. But this one was imprisoned for nearly a day, away from the moons and warm sands,” Kharjo admitted unhappily. “You?”

            “I wasn’t happy either,” she confessed. “I hope he has Sigdrifa killed. The Silver-Bloods were big friends of hers.”

            “This one thought the Stormcloaks were better than that.”

            “Honestly, both sides are kind of arseholes,” Lydia agreed. “Ulfric and Sigdrifa just have more direct blood on their hands.”

            They found sets of old dusty Akaviri armour, the curved swords Delphine called katanas or dai-katanas and furniture covered in dust. “This one will take this sword,” he decided, picking a katana that gleamed with enchantment. “Kharjo likes the look of it.”

            Lydia chose another katana. So they weren’t Blades. They served the Dragonborn better than Delphine and Esbern did.

            Dar’Myrrha joined them. “This one has to return to High Hrothgar and learn another Shout,” she complained. “Esbern and Delphine were most rude about the Greybeards.”

            “Delphine and Esbern have few manners,” Kharjo complained. “Khajiit wishes he was back with the caravans.”

            “You do not have to stay,” Dar’Myrrha said gently.

            “Ri’saad would never forgive Kharjo if he abandoned you, Dragon Cat.” Kharjo sighed. “Besides. J’zargo and Ma’Tisha would set this one on fire.”

            “No, they would not.” Dar’Myrrha sighed. “Let us give our farewells to the Hagraven of this camp and leave.”

            In the camp, the local Hagraven Kaleen was talking to a taller one with the heavy bones of a Nord. “Holy Mountain Clan will stand with King Madanach,” she promised. “We’ve never forgotten.”

            “Good,” croaked the other one. “Lost Valley is being difficult and it’s drawing my attention from Dengeir.”

            “This one came to say goodbye and thank you for the hospitality, Matriarch,” Dar’Myrrha said as they approached.

            “So you’re the Dragon Cat,” remarked the tall Hagraven.

            “Yes, Matriarch,” Dar’Myrrha said quietly. “This one is Dar’Myrrha and her friends are Lydia and Kharjo.”

            “The ones who were framed by Madanach,” the Hagraven said with a sigh. “I’m sorry about my cousin. Did he pay honour-price?”

            “A pack of silver for each of us,” Lydia said.

            “That’s not enough. I am Catriona. If you need any help, come to Glenmoril and I’ll lend it. You did what you were supposed to and Madanach screwed you over.” She turned to Kaleen. “My apologies for talking over you, sister.”

            The other Hagraven waved a clawed hand. “Don’t worry about it. You are Senior Matriarch.”

            “But it is your camp.”

            “True. But you are forgiven.” Kaleen smiled at the trio. “Do you want to stay the night? We caught a lot of salmon today and Moirin has such a way with baking it in mud…”

            Dar’Myrrha shrugged. “Why not? Khajiit is sick of smoked salmon or piddly little pond fish.”

            The feast was a pleasant one and Kharjo discovered the potent juniper alcohol the Reachfolk called ‘jin’ or something like that. “This would sell well in the south,” he told the Briarheart who ran the camp for Kaleen. “Khajiit will tell the caravans. If we trade, the camps will be more connected.”

            “We’d welcome that,” Brochan said. “The more allies we have…”

            “Dar’Myrrha, a word?” Catriona interjected.

            “Of course.” The Dragon Cat leapt from the table and followed the Matriarch into the darkness. Kharjo strained his ears – just to make sure she was okay.

            “You may need to negotiate a peace between Empire and Stormcloak to go fight the dragons,” Catriona was telling Dar’Myrrha. “Ulfric will demand the Reach, both for its symbolic value and the silver mines.”

            “This one will tell him to go away,” Dar’Myrrha promised. “Bjarni and Ralof are good people but this one has lost respect for Ulfric and Sigdrifa.”

            “The dragons are bigger than us all,” Catriona said softly. “I want you to do it.”

            “Khajiit is confused.” So was Kharjo.

            “If Thongvor takes over, we can kill him and liberate the Reach with impunity,” Catriona explained. “We need the recognition of the Empire to exist. Stormcloaks too, if Bjarni’s serious.”

            “This one will educate Bjarni on why you hate his parents,” Dar’Myrrha promised. “He saved me at Helgen, you know.”

            “Of my grandchildren, Bjarni and Hawk are the best,” Catriona agreed fondly.

            “The priestess in Whiterun?”

            “Hawk was from Sigdrifa’s first marriage and took vows to escape her mother’s plans and her father’s sins,” Catriona sighed. “She’s a good way to contact me if you can’t get to Glenmoril.”

            “This one will remember.” Dar’Myrrha echoed her sigh. “This one thought her family was strange, but yours is something else.”

            “I know,” Catriona agreed, “I know.”

            Kharjo returned to his meal. Khajiit was pleased someone would get a comeuppance for their deeds.


	17. The Happy Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Just a little chapter of a few hundred words to lighten all the grimdark stuff in the other stories.

 

It was a long walk from Karthspire to Whiterun and Dar’Myrrha had much to ponder on the way. The Forsworn were a potential ally against the Thalmor in the long run, mages to rival the Altmer, and she was starting to think past the defeat of the Hungry Cat. The conflict wasn’t in doubt for Dar’Myrrha; she was Alfiq, wisest and most cunning of Khajiit, and she could eat other dragons’ souls. The Dragon Cat would prevail.

            Ri’saad was camped outside Whiterun but Ma’randru-jo and Khayla were selling their goods inside with the local woman Ysolda as an agent. “She brought us a mammoth tusk as surety,” the old Cathay-raht said with a faint smile. “This one may even make her a partner in a caravan.”

            “Khajiit is pleased you prosper,” Dar’Myrrha said. “This one has found business opportunities with the Forsworn in the Reach.”

            “Oh?” They got down to discussing the potential of the jin alcohol, the unique enchantments the Forsworn put on their staves and a ready market for the more questionable alchemical ingredients Khajiit came across. Dar’Myrrha enjoyed the chance to just be a normal Khajiit for a few hours.

            “Jo’zargo has won for us another market in the north,” Ri’saad said after the discussion. “He is Arch-Mage of Skyrim and talked Jarl Korir into letting Ma’Tisha run a stall.”

            “Khajiit is pleased!” Dar’Myrrha said. “This one needs to learn a Shout from the Greybeards to defeat the Hungry Cat Alduin.”

            “You should go by Winterhold. Jo’zargo has found several Words,” Ri’saad told her.

            Dar’Myrrha purred in pleasure. “The Greybeards can wait. This one wants to see her siblings.”

            After all, Khajiit should stay in contact with family.


	18. The Family Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Winterhold was a cold, desolate kind of place. Why couldn’t the mages have moved somewhere more sensible like Whiterun? Khajiit supposed Nord mages had more to prove than their non-Nord counterparts because of Sovngarde and all that rubbish.

            Ma’Tisha was running a little stall selling exotic goods that were a bit beyond the local Nord merchant’s expertise, including things from the College. “Dar’Myrrha!” she cried, cutting off a conversation with a red-haired man in crumpled fur-lined robes. “This one has heard the strangest things about you!”

            “All of them true,” Dar’Myrrha assured her little sister, leaping from Lydia’s shoulder to Ma’Tisha’s arms. “This one is the Dragon Cat and she is making good progress on eating Alduin Hungry Cat’s soul.”

            They nuzzled briefly. Ma’Tisha smelt like snow and mead. “Have you heard about Jo’zargo?” she asked.

            “That he is Arch-Mage? Having met some Nord mages, Khajiit is not surprised. Jo’zargo is almost as good a mage as I am.”

            The red-haired man burst out laughing. “I see humility isn’t a Khajiit virtue.”

            “Of course not, Jarl Korir. We are the fairest of races. Do not worry, this one will not rub it in your face too much,” Ma’Tisha said with a grin. “This is Dar’Myrrha, the Dragon Cat – and my big sister.”

            Jarl Korir inclined his head. “Welcome to Winterhold, Dragonborn. If I can offer assistance, just ask.”

            “Thank you, Jarl Korir. This one has business at the College. Jo’zargo has been too long without adult supervision. Oh, and he might have learned a thing or two about dragons.”

            Korir nodded again. “I never would have guessed a Khajiit would be a good leader, but he saved the world from the Thalmor.”

            Jo’zargo was trying to one-up her? Dar’Myrrha would have to correct her brother’s arrogance, just a little.

            “This one set fire to the Thalmor Embassy,” Dar’Myrrha said proudly. “When she is done with the Hungry Cat, she will go back to Elseweyr and set fire to more of them.”

            “You might find a few Nords marching with you,” Korir said with a grin.

            “One should always invite friends when there is entertainment to be had.”

            They walked over to the local inn, aptly named the Frozen Hearth. Jo’zargo was inside, wearing fringed sea-blue robes and talking intimately with a Nord male. Dar’Myrrha sniffed the air. They were mated. And her brother hadn’t invited her to the wedding.

            “This one hears you saved the world from the Thalmor,” Dar’Myrrha said, leaping onto the table between them.

            “Jo’zargo is your better. But because you are the eldest, he does not wish to remind you of the fact too often,” was her little brother’s response.

            “This one can eat dragon souls and spit out the bones,” Dar’Myrrha informed him.

            “That is nice. Jo’zargo can freeze an entire group of draugr solid.”

            “This one set fire to Nurancar the Butcher’s wife.”

            “Jo’zargo knows more dragon words than you.”

            “Khajiit would set you on fire with a word, but it would not be a good way to meet her new mate-brother.”

            “Jo’zargo can turn fire to ice,” said Jo’zargo’s mate smugly. “I’m Onmund, by the way.”

            “Dar’Myrrha. The other Khajiit is our cousin Kharjo and the Nord is my huscarl Lydia.” She smiled at the Nord. “This one sees you have more taste than most of your kind – even if it was Jo’zargo you married.”

            “We’re not married yet,” Onmund mumbled. “Working on it though.”

            “This one wants to have everyone there. Except the dragons,” Jo’zargo confirmed.

            “Kharjo has helped kill dragons. It is not a pleasant chore,” Kharjo said.

            “So Jo’zargo has heard.” He rose to his feet and Onmund followed. “This one has dragon bones and words for you. After all, you will need some help against the Hungry Cat.”

            Dar’Myrrha hissed. “This one taught you your first spell.”

            “And the student has surpassed the teacher.” Jo’zargo bowed mockingly. “Do not worry, sister. Humility is good for the soul.”

            Dar’Myrrha hissed at him again. She’d forgotten how quick Jo’zargo’s tongue was.

            The College was located across a very deep chasm. “This place is almost worse than Morthal,” Lydia muttered to Kharjo.

            “It is better than Markarth,” the Cathay-raht pointed out.

            “…True.”

            There were three dragon skeletons in the courtyard that she automatically absorbed the souls from. “They kept on attacking,” Onmund said. “They’re not so tough when confronted with mages.”

            “They attacked because the Hungry Cat knows Jo’zargo is this one’s brother,” Dar’Myrrha said softly. “This fight is between this one and him. He will regret this.”

            With the souls came three new Words – one to slow time, one that sent fear into an enemy and one that froze a target solid. These could be useful Shouts but Dar’Myrrha preferred Fire Breath. It got people’s attention.

            “Jo’zargo has more information in the library,” Jo’zargo said smugly. “It has something stranger than a Khajiit Dragonborn.”

            “What is that?”

            “An Orcish librarian.”

            Dar’Myrrha laughed and followed her brother into the College. Truly, this was a place of wonders.


	19. The Climbing Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Yes, I head-canon that Jills, while normally called ‘she-dragon’, can be any gender and that they have neck-frills. Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah are hella gay. My story, my head-canon.

 

“We will not teach you that Shout. It is evil.”

            “So is the Hungry Cat eating the world!” Dar’Myrrha yelled in frustration, shaking the very stones of High Hrothgar around her. “Must this one remind you that Alduin will eat you too?”

            Arngeir clasped his hands together. “It may be time for the world to end-“

            Wulfgar said something, his voice shaking the monastery even more than Dar’Myrrha. Arngeir switched to Dragonish and argued with him but was worn down when the other two Greybeards gave him pointed death glares. Kharjo and Lydia exchanged looks.

            “I must send you to Paarthurnax,” Arngeir finally said with a vinegary expression. “I will teach you one more Shout to reach the true Throat of the World and that will be our last gift to you.”

            “Finally,” Kharjo muttered in Ta’agra. “This one is sick of climbing these seven thousand steps.”

            Lydia nodded in agreement. She’d been learning a civilised language, obvious.

            Arngeir did as he promised and then sent Dar’Myrrha and her friends up the path. There were walls of wind and ice. There were ice wraiths. There were even a few goats.

            But eventually, they arrived at the peak and watched in awe as an old, slightly bedraggled grey dragon and a smaller white one with a neck-frill landed in front of them.

            “Drem Yol Lok,” greeted the old grey dragon.

            “Drem Yol Lok?” Dar’Myrrha said tentatively.

            “Yes,” he said approvingly. “I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah... my mountain?”

            “This one needs help,” Dar’Myrrha admitted humbly. There was a wisdom in those fiery eyes, dull as they were, she could not deny.

            “Drem. Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of three of the dov.”

            Dragons had manners? Oh Khenarthi have mercy, had she been inadvertently rude?

            “By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin! Yol...Toor...Shul! A gift, Dovahkiin. Toor. Understand Fire as the dov do.”

            Paarthurnax breathed a blast of fire that just missed Dar’Myrrha, the hot wind of its passing blasting her fur back. But there was a new Word to the Shout she knew… Yol Toor.

            “Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!” Paarthurnax urged.

            She didn’t mean to set him on fire, really. As Lydia and Kharjo gasped in horror, the old grey dragon laughed.

            “Aaah... yes! Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind.”

            “I do not count?” asked the smaller white dragon pointedly.

            “You come and go as Bormahu and Kaan require,” Paarthurnax said with a gusty sigh. “To me falls the guarding of the time-wound. To you, the fulfilling of destinies and the mending of time.”

            “Drem Yol Lok, Dar-Mir-Rah,” greeted the little dragon. “I am Teyfunvahzah, ‘Tale-Told-True’.”

            “This one is pleased to meet two of her kind that are not trying to eat her,” Dar’Myrrha said in relief. “Khajiit is sorry for setting Paarthurnax on fire.”

            “Dovahhe are born to withstand fire… mostly.” Paarthurnax looked more amused than anything else. “But you did not come here for tinvaak with an old dovah. How may we help you, briinahi?”

            “This one needs Dragonrend or the Hungry Cat will eat us all,” Dar’Myrrha admitted. “Arngeir called it evil.”

            “It was crafted from the rage and grief of our friends Gormlaith, Hakon and Felldir during the Dragon War,” Teyfunvahzah said with a sigh of his own. “Neither Paarthurnax nor I can teach you, for the very words are… alien to us. Dovahhe are invulnerable and eternal. Dragonrend… forces the fragility and mortality of joorre – mortals – on us.”

            “But it can be learned,” Lydia ventured quietly.

            Paarthurnax nodded to a distortion in the air. “Yes. The time wound… You will need an Elder Scroll.”

            “Sure, this one keeps his in his backpack,” Kharjo observed sardonically.

            Teyfunvahzah actually snickered. “Your little brother may be able to help you.”

            “Jo’zargo, good for something more than boasting? This is the end of days,” Dar’Myrrha said dryly. “This one is grateful.”

            The old grey dragon inclined his head. “When you have the Kel, the Elder Scroll, bring it here. Bring friends. Al-Du-In will be less than pleased.”

            Dar’Myrrha raised her head up high. “Good. This one is very displeased with him.”


	20. The Ruin-Exploring Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Jo’zargo did, as Teyfunvahzah told her, have a lead on an Elder Scroll. A mage of equal power and insanity living out on the ice who sought an Elder Scroll. Thank Khenarthi that Onmund’s father, a fisherman, knew where the mage lived and how to get there. If Dar’Myrrha never smelt horker again, it would be too much. Jo’zargo didn’t seem to mind.

            Septimus was clearly touched by Hermorah the Tides Cat but he had Dwemer things, so Dar’Myrrha spoke politely to him, took the things, and left his outpost. Ragnar, Onmund’s father, knew where the place called Alftand – because he’d ferried a party there a couple weeks ago. “Dwemer ruins have many small valuable magical things,” Jo’zargo said, whiskers twitching. “This one will come with you – just so you do not get killed by a Centurion and he will not have to become Dragonborn.”

            “There is not enough space in your body for your ego and a dragon’s soul,” Dar’Myrrha retorted.

            “And yet the boat carries you, your ego and all of us,” Ragnar remarked as he beached the boat near Alftand.

            If he was not going to be mate-family, Dar’Myrrha would have taken offence at that.

            Alftand was what happened when sugar-tooth Khajiit, twisted little goblin creatures called Falmer, Dwemer automatons and incompetent softskins existed in the one place. Dar’Myrrha let Jo’zargo show off in front of his mate, who was actually quite a competent mage – which was to say by Nord standards he was a veritable genius. They found a treasure trove of soul gems and other goods. Because Khajiit was generous, she let Onmund and Jo’zargo keep them while Kharjo took a better sword and Lydia an enchanted shield from the idiot Redguard who attacked them.

            After they found the hidden entrance to where the Scroll was, they discovered an underground dale of strange fungi, more of those Falmer and all sorts of beasts, strange herbs and other things. The orange sun-like thing in the middle held a dragon, activated when Dar’Myrrha Shouted a Falmer archer into the air. That dragon soon became another soul and Word in her arsenal.

            They found the lexicon and where the Scroll was kept. It took some time to crack open the safe but Khajiit were patient and so Dar’Myrrha soon had it in her possession. Well, Kharjo carried it so he could tell Paarthurnax he could get one from his backpack, but same thing.

            Jo’zargo decided to keep the lexicon. He could deal with Hermorah if he wished. Dar’Myrrha just wanted to defeat the Hungry Cat and get on with her life.

            They returned to Dawnstar. The Jarl was very rude, telling the Khajiit to leave. Dar’Myrrha thought Shouting him on his tail was quite a restrained response. It could have been Fire Breath. But if it hadn’t been for the Stormcloak commander and Ragnar, they might have all gone to prison for assault. Dawnstar needed a new Jarl. Khajiit did not have time to improve the place.

            The next morning, they left for Winterhold and the Rift. Dar’Myrrha could count the hours until the Hungry Cat’s defeat. She would not fail Alkosh and Khenarthi.


	21. The Coward Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Dar’Myrrha laid back her ears and hissed in distaste. “Khajiit is cold.”

            “We’re nearly to High Hrothgar,” Lydia assured her Thane. “We can warm up there.”

            “This one hopes the blizzard dies down soon,” Kharjo said gravely. “We must defeat the Hungry Cat.”

            Lydia nodded in agreement, pushing on. This blizzard was bad enough even for a Nord.

            Before they left Winterhold, Jo’zargo and his people had enchanted every scrap of arms and armour they possessed against fire and frost, adding extra bite to their weapons through enchanted gauntlets, and even made a special harness for Dar’Myrrha that enhanced her already-formidable Destruction skills. Even their boots were enchanted with Muffle and Waterwalking, which had the added bonus of letting them all walk above the snow.

            So they were as ready as they could be to confront Alduin World-Eater. Except, well, you know – having to face the destructive end of the world.

            Lydia refused to show her fear. Dar’Myrrha and Kharjo were counting on her.

            They reached High Hrothgar and were chivvied inside by Borri, given stew and tea to warm up by Einarth, and sat by a fire kindled by Wulfgar with one Word. “Where’s Arngeir?” Lydia asked.

            Wulfgar said something in a whisper that still made the building shake and Dar’Myrrha frowned. “He has gone to the peak,” she said slowly.

            “In this blizzard?”

            “Clear Skies,” Dar’Myrrha pointed out. Then she sighed. “Khajiit is an idiot. She should have used that Shout.”

            Borri snorted in amusement and even Einarth had the ‘no shit’ expression on his face.

            They stayed in High Hrothgar overnight and after a spare breakfast, ventured outside and up the trail to the peak. Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah were there, looking anxious.

            “I feel the Kel. The earthbones shudder at its touch,” the old grey dragon said gravely. “Look at the time-wound, Dar-Mir-Ah, and open the Scroll. But be prepared – Alduin will come.”

            With some help from Kharjo, Dar’Myrrha opened the Scroll and read. The hairs on Lydia’s neck rose as the tension increased.

            It was only a shadow passing overhead that alerted Lydia to the presence of Alduin. “He’s here, he’s here!” she yelled.

            Big. Black. Terrible. The World-Eater was nightmare incarnate and his sepulchral tones spoke of doom unending. When he spoke, the snow on the mountain boiled away in a flash of steam.

            “Tahrodiis Paarthurnax!” he greeted.

            “Hold, Alduin on the wing!” From the shadows of the wall, Arngeir stepped out. “By Kyne’s will, you are abjured from entering this place. Go forth and return whence you came or be banished until time’s end, when the folk of the snow will prove their last best worth on the battlefield of the stars!”

            Alduin roared with laughter, the blast of his breath blowing Arngeir’s hair and robes back, but the Greybeard remained unshaken. Lydia collected herself and moved towards the back, intending to flank the World-Eater. From the corner of her eye, she noted Kharjo picking up Dar’Myrrha and doing the same.

            “Paarthurnax’s favourite pet,” taunted Alduin. “I will kill you. Then Teyfunvahzah. And then I may allow Paarthurnax to die.”

            “No, you will not, for you will be revealed as the coward you truly are today,” Arngeir said grimly. “Come then, World-Eater. Let us see if the blood of the Akaviri still flows within my veins.”

            He raised his hand to the boiling clouds above and Shouted. The very air itself shook with the power of the Words. A great wind tasting of flint and snow blasted past Arngeir and knocked the dragon from the sky.

            “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Dar’Myrrha cried, following it up with lightning that crawled across Alduin’s black scaly hide.

            Alduin roared in fury and Shouted fire at Arngeir, whose Ward deflected the flame. Lydia and Kharjo hacked at his hindquarters as Teyfunvahzah struck down like a hawk at his wings.

            For three or four Shouts the same pattern continued. But finally, even Arngeir ran out of breath, and Alduin timed his Fire Breath Shout for when the Greybeard was panting and exhausted.

            Arngeir, as Dar’Myrrha had noted, was not immune to fire.

            By the end of the Shout, all that remained was ash.

            “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Dar’Myrrha screamed, her voice tight with rage and grief.

            Lydia found herself hammering the very concept of mortality into Alduin’s hide as Kharjo screamed Khajiit war cries and did the same. Even Paarthurnax was now calling on wind and lightning to strike Alduin.

            Lydia’s sword struck through black scale, red blood welling up from the gash.

            Alduin roared in surprise and confusion, flinching away from her sword and clumsily taking to the air, only to be struck by Teyfunvahzah once more into the side of the mountain. He rose once more and flew east towards the Velothi Mountains, roaring in pain.

            “Come back you fucking coward!” Dar’Myrrha screamed into the sky. “You are not the Hungry Cat! _You are the Coward Cat!_ ”

            “Aar-Naar-Gaar,” Paarthurnax said sadly. “Why did you die for me?”

            “Because he was coming to the end of his lifespan and the storm-scrying foretold your death,” Teyfunvahzah said with equal sorrow. “I think he wanted to atone for other things too.”

            It began to rain, as if Kyne was weeping for Her priest too. It should have been a victory… but it didn’t feel like one.


	22. The Season-Ending Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

It was a sombre group who left High Hrothgar after Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah told them what they’d need to do next. Borri had already stepped into Arngeir’s shoes but would not be able to speak for the Greybeards. Dar’Myrrha supposed that someone else – maybe Paarthurnax himself – would have to take up that role. But they had business in Whiterun.

            “We’ll need to make some kind of truce between the Empire and the Stormcloaks to be able to use Uncle Balgruuf’s dragon-trap,” Lydia said soberly. “There’s only two groups who could call that kind of meeting, and we just left the Greybeards behind.”

            “Who is the other?” Dar’Myrrha asked in a subdued tone.

            “Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions.”

            “This one thinks we should invite the Reachfolk too,” Kharjo said softly.

            Lydia laughed sourly. “Maybe Madanach will do us the favour of killing both sides so the rest of us can live in peace.”

            “Only the Thalmor win in such a manner,” Kharjo said with a sigh.

            It was as Lydia warned and fast mountain hawks, enchanted by Hawk from the Temple of Khenarthi, carried the summons of Kodlak Whitemane to the hall of Jorrvaskr. The Companions seemed very happy to help since dragons seemed to avoid fighting them. Maybe it was because some of them smelled like wet dog. Khajiit did not mention that. Khajiit had manners.

            Madanach and Catriona were first to agree and arrive. Dar’Myrrha already knew their agreement would require the recognition of the Forsworn as the rightful rulers of the Reach, which was fine by her. But she would demand that he stop raiding Whiterun. Khajiit was Thane after all.

            After that came the Legion, including the General Tullius who’d tried to execute Stormcloaks and a couple random people at Helgen. With him was the pretty Jarl Elisif and a woman named Rikke, who apparently knew Ulfric and Galmar from the Great War. They were going to be difficult.

            Finally, Ulfric and Bjarni Stormcloak arrived with his friend Galmar and Ralof of Riverwood. Khajiit was fond of them – well, Bjarni and Ralof. Ulfric had helped her but Ulfric had killed a lot of Reachfolk. Like the Empire, they were going to be difficult.

            They gathered in Jorrvaskr’s hall and Kodlak, an old Nord who smelt of sickness and dog, took his seat at the head of the table. “We will share meat, mead, bread and salt before any discussions begin,” he announced. “Let us all be bound by guest laws.”

            “Do we have to do this?” Elisif asked. “Ulfric is a traitor!”

            “And you are nothing but a puppet!” snapped Ulfric in answer.

            “Speaking as the resident cleric, may I suggest we get past the accusations of who did what to whom and on to the subject of a truce?” Hawk suggested acidly. “Alduin has fled to Sovngarde, where he replenishes his strength by feasting on the heroic Nord dead of both sides. Every minute you waste, another soul falls prey to his hunger.”

            Every Nord in the crowd started to shout in outrage until the big dark-haired Nord named Farkas stood up and yelled, “Enough!”

            Catriona, Hagraven of Hircine, looked a little sick as she spoke. She had been a Nord, Dar’Myrrha recalled. “Madanach and I will not move on the topic of a free Reach ruled by its own people.”

            “If you think we’re going to let you heathens rule,” Ulfric began heatedly, only to be spoken over by his son’s deeper voice.

            “We can’t demand our own freedoms without respecting those of others,” Bjarni said, meeting his grandmother’s gaze. “If you acknowledge the right of Skyrim to rule itself, I can do the same with the Reach.”

            “You lowlanders can do what you want,” Madanach said with a shrug. “Just stay the hell out of the Reach.”

            “If you think I’ll agree to this, you might as well serve me goat piss and call it Colovian brandy,” Tullius said into the ensuing silence.

            “Why not? The taste is not dissimilar,” Kharjo muttered.

            “This one must go to Sovngarde and defeat the Hungry Cat!” Dar’Myrrha snapped, leaping onto the table to be seen. “First she must catch a dragon who knows how to get there, then she must find her way through the mists, then she must face Alduin! You might be Khenarthi’s favourite mortal children, but your heads are almost as empty as Her skies!”

            “I, for one, will be interested in hearing the wisdom of the Dragon Cat,” Kodlak said to the others.

            “You are one of six intelligent Nords this one has met,” Dar’Myrrha told him.

            Kodlak smiled wryly. “I will tell you one day of the time I met another Alfiq, Dragonborn.”

            No wonder he was so civilised. He’d met another of the wisest, most cunning Khajiit.

            “The Reach is free. The Holds who want to stay with the Empire can stay with them. Those who want to be Stormcloaks can be Stormcloaks.” Dar’Myrrha spoke rapidly. “Every Nord who dies in battle feeds the Hungry Cat. Do not make Khajiit’s job harder than it already is. Arngeir is dead. This one does not wish to see more people she knows dead.”

            Hawk and Ulfric blanched. Dar’Myrrha knew that Ulfric had trained as a Greybeard but how did Hawk know Arngeir?

            “You will split the Empire apart!” Tullius protested.

            “You thought nothing of sending innocent people with the Stormcloaks to death at Helgen,” Dar’Myrrha reminded him. “Where was the Legion when the Khajiit lost the moons? Too busy fighting over the Ruby Throne and that is how the Dominion conquered Elseweyr.”

            She looked between the Reachfolk and the Stormcloaks. “Ulfric owes wergild to the Reachfolk. In return, the Reachfolk will stop raiding Nords.”

            Madanach shrugged. “High Rock’s got better spoils anyway.”

            “By splitting us up, you’re doing the work of the Dominion,” Rikke said quietly.

            “When this one is done with Alduin, she intends to return to Elseweyr and deal with these elves who stole our moons,” Dar’Myrrha promised. “The Stormcloaks can come along if they want.”

            Rikke’s smile was thin. “Maybe I’ll have retired by then.”

            Ulfric grinned. “You’re always welcome, Rikke.”

            “We’ll do it,” Bjarni agreed. “You’ll hear the screams from here to Windhelm, but anything that stops the World-Eater from eating the souls of heroes is worthwhile.”

            “You are the smartest Nord this one knows,” Dar’Myrrha told him fondly. She liked Bjarni.

            “Perhaps, for the sake of balance, Ulfric can pay wergild to Elisif?” suggested one of the Companions, a Redguard with an oily tenor. “I understand your frustrations, Dragonborn, but you can’t mistrust the Empire.”

            “Fine,” she agreed crossly. “Does anyone else have stupid questions or can we get around to capturing a dragon?”

            Farkas and his leaner twin began to chant “Dragon! Dragon!” Of course, Bjarni and Ralof joined in, then Madanach and Catriona. Rikke followed them and soon everyone was chanting it.

            Dar’Myrrha sighed inwardly. Did any Nord actually have any common sense or did it skip their entire race when Azurah was handing out virtues? Only the god cats knew.


	23. The Stupid Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. About four or five chapters left in this story. Thanks for reading!

 

In the end, about a dozen warriors gathered on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach to trap Odahviing, a dragon who served Alduin as a lieutenant. Dar’Myrrha had chosen the Hero-Twins of the Companions (Farkas and Vilkas), Bjarni and Ralof (she liked them), Lydia and Kharjo (her friends), Hawk (she knew how to heal people) and Balgruuf. The rest came from the city guard under the command of Irileth.

            The trap was repaired and primed, Hawk ready to spring it once Odahviing was in place. Dar’Myrrha stepped up, took a deep breath, and Shouted “ODAHVIING!”

            They fell back. But it was silent for a long while. She’d been assured that no dragon would ignore their name being called. Had one developed sense?

            A Whiterun guard walked out to peer up at the mountain. “I see no dragon-“

            Stupidity was its own reward. A red flash stooped down like one of Khenarthi’s hawks and there was no guard but a lot of crunching sounds, a falling helmet and a cut-off scream.

            “Odahviing!” Dar’Myrrha repeated.

            The dragon, a dark red like the sands of southern Elseweyr, landed on the parapet. “I am here, Dovahkiin! Let us test our Voices against each other!”

            “Come a little closer, Odahviing,” Dar’Myrrha taunted as she slowly walked back. “This one has wanted to meet you since she defeated Alduin.”

            Red dragons weren’t obviously the crown of Alkosh’s creation because Odahviing followed her right into the porch. He might have still escaped the springing of the trap but Dar’Myrrha used Dragonrend to keep him in place as the collar locked around his throat.

            “If this one had fallen for that trap as a kitten, Khajiit would have been disowned by her clan-mother,” she said, shaking her head as the dragon cursed. “Alduin is a coward cat and you are a stupid cat. No wonder Alkosh and Azurah made me the Dragon Cat. They could have made a sugar-tooth Senchay-raht the Dragon Cat and that one would have still been smarter than any dragon alive.”

            “The Dovahkiin is a Kaaz?” Odahviing asked in disbelief. “Thuru was defeated by a _cat_?”

            “Alfiq Khajiit,” Dar’Myrrha corrected primly. “Cleverest and wisest of the fairest of races.”

            “Joor mey,” Odahviing said, shaking his head as much as he could in the collar. “You have trapped me like a bear.”

            “Yes. The Hungry Cat has gone to Sovngarde, where he eats the souls of the Nords. Nords might not be very sensible – though they are smarter than dragons – but this one likes many of them. Alkosh, Khenarthi and Azurah obviously want Nirni to survive, so this one must obey the god cats.” Dar’Myrrha daintily licked a paw. “Take this one and two others to the portal which leads to Sovngarde and you will be free of the Hungry Cat in short order.”

            Odahviing tilted his head, shock in his fiery eyes. “How do you know wings are required, Dovahkiin?”

            “Because my clan-mother did not raise a stupid Khajiit! Dragons are predictable. You have your homes in the mountains. Therefore, the Hungry Cat will keep his home there.”

            “Yes,” the dragon conceded reluctantly. “Skuldafn, an ancient fane protected by draugr warriors and the last of those loyal to Alduin.”

            “The dragons aren’t loyal to the World-Eater?” Balgruuf asked.

            “Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him,” the dragon answered.

            “Of course. He has failed as a leader. He is the Coward Cat. Perhaps the dragons are not as stupid as I feared.” Dar’Myrrha looked into Odahviing’s eyes. “Will you serve me?”

            “Aam? Serve you? ...no. Ni tiid. If and when you defeat Alduin, I will reconsider,” Odahviing responded.

            “This one will defeat Alduin,” she promised. “Will you carry us to Skuldafn?”

            “Yes.”

            Hawk pulled the lever and released the trap. “He will keep his word,” the priestess assured them. “Or Kyne will take his breath.”

            Dar’Myrrha looked at the gathered warriors. But for the idiot who became a dragon snack, no one had been hurt. “This one cannot order you to come. If you are Nord and you fall, Alduin will feast on you.”

            “I’m coming anyway,” Lydia said firmly. “Me and Kharjo started this. Let’s finish it.”

            Bjarni’s eyes widened pleadingly. “But I want to see Sovngarde! I saved you at Helgen, you know.”

            “The joorre are insane,” Odahviing muttered.

            “Can you carry three humans?” she asked the dragon.

            “…Yes.”

            Dar’Myrrha nodded. “Lydia, Bjarni, Kharjo. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

            “You three are the bravest… or the most insane… people I’ve ever known,” Irileth said in reluctant awe.

            “May Kynareth guard you while you pass through her realm!” Balgruuf exclaimed.

            “She will,” Hawk said confidently. “For the end of all times is come.”

            No pressure for Khajiit, Dar’Myrrha thought sourly. No pressure at all.”


	24. The God-Fearing Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpse desecration.

 

Dar’Myrrha had often wished for wings since becoming the Dragon Cat.

            After flight, she decided wings belonged to Khenarthi. A flying cat she was not.

            Odahviing dropped them off at the base of a lot of stairs, where innumerable draugr and two dragons awaited them. Basic tactical thinking on Alduin’s part. Maybe he was the smartest dragon alive.

            Bjarni handed out potions. “If I die this day, it will be in the Vale of Heroes, not on the doorstep of the World-Eater’s eyrie. Drink up and run.”

            Bjarni was very much the smartest Nord alive, Dar’Myrrha decided as she obeyed.

            Draugr. Draugr. Dragon. Draugr. New Word that meant ‘storm’. Interesting. She wondered what it would do. Fort full of draugr. Other dragon and some masked skeleton.

            “Strun”, it seemed, summoned a storm with lightning that struck any enemy in her way.

            Oh, Khajiit was going to have _fun_ with this one. Dar’Myrrha allowed herself to imagine rows of Thalmor soldiers exploding. The Nords, who she was definitely sure were the chosen children of Khenarthi, would like it too.

            The Dominion was going to die very soon. Once she dealt with the Hungry Cat, of course.

            The portal to Sovngarde was… interesting. Lydia and Bjarni clutched each other while Kharjo laid his ears back. Dar’Myrrha’s fur stood on end.

            The Vale of Heroes was lovely… and covered by mist.

            “He traps the souls of heroes in that mist,” Bjarni said hoarsely. “We need to find them.”

            “This one can banish them,” she assured him. “She will do so.”

            They found a lot of Legion and Stormcloak soldiers, one very confused man Bjarni called Torygg (who was he, again?), and eventually a giant of a man who glowed with an inner light. Every time Dar’Myrrha dispelled the mist, Alduin called it back. Mists would not hide him. The Dragon Cat was here for the Hungry Cat.

            “What brings you, wayfarers grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” the giant of a man demanded.

            “This one is Dar’Myrrha, the Dragon Cat, and these are my friends. Kharjo is of the fairest of races but Lydia and Bjarni are Nords. We have a lot of dead Nords following us. Please let them in.”

            The giant cracked a smile.

            “I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honour.” He cast a glance over the host of Nord spirits.

            “I am Bjarni, son of Ulfric Stormcloak,” Bjarni said formally. “Glad we are to test ourselves against your arm, Heroes’ Welcome.”

            “No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?” Tsun answered.

            “This one comes by right of being Dragonborn. The World-Eater is eating your people’s souls,” Dar’Myrrha said in exasperation. “Must this one set you on fire to prove her point?”

            “Pretty much,” Bjarni confirmed cheerfully. “All who would enter Sovngarde must test themselves against Tsun, our God of Trials.”

            Dar’Myrrha’s ears flattened in shame. “This one is sorry, god-cat,” she said apologetically.

            Tsun laughed once more. “Truly, I have seen all. Was there no hero of man to come forth as Dragonborn?”

            “Alduin probably expected Nords after the Three Tongues kicked his arse in the Merethic Era,” Bjarni told the god. “Akatosh wasn’t minded for him to see Dar’Myrrha coming.”

            “Indeed.” Tsun lifted his axe. “Test me with your Voice, Dovahkiin!”

            “Set him on fire,” Lydia advised. “That usually makes someone a believer.”

            Reluctantly, Dar’Myrrha crowned her life’s achievements by setting a god on fire with Fire Breath.

            “You speak the truth.” Tsun’s smile was edged. “Come, Bjarni Ulfricsson, test yourself.”

            Bjarni got one hit in before he landed on his backside. Kharjo, Lydia and everyone else suffered similar fates.

            “Go you across the Whalebone Bridge,” Tsun urged them. “Within awaits heroes who would speak with you.”

            Dar’Myrrha did not look down as she was carried across. Khajiit had her limits.

            They reached the Hall of Valour and entered inside.

            It looked like Jorrvaskr, but… golden. A great light sat at the head of the endless table where Nords feasted, while others fought for fun. Everyone was roaring drunk.

            “Sovngarde,” Lydia said in awe.

            “This one wonders if they have that jin drink from the Reach,” Kharjo mused.

            “If that’s Ysgramor next to Shor, I look like a runt compared to him,” Bjarni said mournfully.

            “Which one is Shor?” Dar’Myrrha asked.

            “The light. His visage is not for mortals to behold.” For once, Bjarni was subdued.

            “This one wishes she could get drunk,” Dar’Myrrha muttered.

            Heaven was not for mortals to bear. But Dar’Myrrha took a deep breath and went deeper into the Hall of Valour. She needed to find these heroes who would speak to her.


	25. The Triumphant Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence. Show’s nearly over, folks!

 

The three heroes were the original Tongues who overthrew Alduin the first time around. One was a tall blonde woman called Gormlaith; the second was her brother Hakon; and the third an old man named Felldir.

            “At long last! Alduin's doom is now ours to seal - just speak the word and with high hearts we'll hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks,” Gormlaith said with a grin.

            “This one thinks you should wait a little while,” Dar’Myrrha told her. “This one saw you slain first by the Hungry Cat.”

            Hakon’s jaw dropped. “You’re… you’re…”

            “A talking cat. Yes, this one hears it all the time. More importantly, Khajiit is the Dragon Cat,” Dar’Myrrha confirmed crossly. “Must this one set you on fire to prove it?”

            Her awe was fled in the presence of this idiot and her friends.

            “Hold, comrades - let us counsel take before battle is blindly joined. Alduin's mist is more than a snare - its shadowy gloom is his shield and cloak. But with four voices joined, our valour combined, we can blast the mist and bring him to battle,” advised Felldir gravely.

            “Finally, another Nord with brains,” Dar’Myrrha agreed. “This one is fond of many of Khenarthi’s children, but to the fairest of races, your heads are as empty as Her skies.”

            “Still smarter than dragons,” Bjarni quipped.

            “That is not hard.”

            Felldir actually smirked. His eyes were the same colour as Bjarni’s and Hawk’s and Egil’s.

            “Felldir speaks wisdom - the World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn. We must drive away his mist, Shouting together, and then unsheathe our blades in desperate battle with our black-winged foe,” Hakon said, collecting himself.

            “To battle, my friends! The fields will echo with the clamour of war, our wills undaunted,” Gormlaith announced, running for the door.

            Harkon rolled his single eye and followed her. With a sigh, Felldir and the others joined him.

            Outside, Tsun encouraged them onwards. Easy for the god-cat of trials to say. He was not fighting the Hungry Cat.

            “We cannot fight the foe in this mist!” Felldir announced.

            “Clear Skies!” Dar’Myrrha yelled.

            As one, they Shouted, and the stars of heaven were visible.

            Then Alduin’s Voice spoke, dark and dismal, and the mist returned.

            They Shouted again and Alduin followed suit.

            “Does his strength have no end? Is our struggle in vain?” Harkon asked in despair.

            “Stand fast! His strength is failing! Once more, and his might will be broken!” Gormlaith announced.

            “His power crumbles - do not pause for breath!” Felldir ordered.

            On the third time, the mists were dispersed, and Alduin descended like a nightmare from the starry skies above.

            “Joor Zah Frul!” Dar’Myrrha yelled, bringing him to earth.

            For an apocalyptic monster bent on ruling the world and then devouring it, the Hungry Cat was truly a pathetic creature. It was true his fire breath was more than Dar’Myrrha’s but since she worried more about keeping him on the ground with Dragonrend and draining away his magicka with Thunderbolt than engaging him, he was mostly focusing his attacks on Kharjo and Lydia, both of whom had armour enchanted against fire.

            In the end, Alduin proved that dragons were truly the most stupid of creatures because they’d had all the power in the world, and when he cowered whimpering in a huddled heap, Dar’Myrrha broke him apart with the storm Shout. He cracked apart like a cheap vase and vanished with a despairing scream.

            “That was a mighty deed! The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, with glad friendship, and bid you join the blessed feasting,” Tsun said as he came up to them.

            “This one hopes not!” Dar’Myrrha said fervently. “Nords are nice enough, but this one does not wish to spend eternity with them!”

            Tsun roared with laughter. “We will sing songs of the Dragon Cat and wherever you are, you will hear them. Return now to Nirn, with this rich boon from Shor, my lord: a Shout to bring a hero from Sovngarde in your hour of need. Nahl...Daal...Vus!”

            And that was that.


	26. The Tale-Telling Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

It was summer in Whiterun and the human kits flocked to Ri’Kharjo to hear the stories of the Dragon Cat.

            Thirty years ago, the children of Azurah joined forces with the children of Khenarthi, the Reachfolk and the Redguards of the sands to drive the Dominion from Tamriel. Much havoc was wrought by the power of the Dragon Cat upon the armies, lesser dragons grown wise in the defeat of the Hungry Cat feasting upon goldskin bodies for the fairest of races and the wood elves broke free of them. It was a time of glory and sorrow for many died. But they won. After the Hungry Cat, the Thalmor filth were as dust in the wind.

            The Cyrods begged Dar’Myrrha to become their Empress but the Dragon Cat disdained them. So the heartland of empire withered as other nations broke free of the yoke and ruled themselves, as it should be. Khajiit and Nord and Redguard and Reachfolk prospered in their despite, forming a new Great Council. It would fail, for all mortals were as the shifting sands of Elseweyr, but Ri’Kharjo had not seen it happen yet.

            Dar’Myrrha disappeared several years ago… but the Mane decreed there was a new god-cat, the Dragon Cat, and all knew that the spiritual leader of the Khajiit was right. Even the Nords worshipped Her in their way. Ri’Kharjo and Ma’zargo and Ma’Tisha were held in reverence as kin to a god-cat. Lydia and Bjarni were considered Khajiit souls who were somehow trapped in human bodies, a fact which made the former blush and the latter laugh. They were both Jarls now in their own right and Bjarni was also High King of Skyrim.

            “Ri’Kharjo?” asked a little girl with blue-green eyes. One of Hawk’s descendants, he thought; the priestess of Khenarthi was a grandmother now. “Granma said she knew the Dragon Cat.”

            “Your grandmother was very correct,” Ri’Kharjo confirmed. “Even the Dragon Cat asked her for advice a time or two.”

            “Ooooh!” the other kits exclaimed. “Did she really set a monk on fire?”

            “She did not _mean_ to,” Ri’Kharjo said wryly. “Come, children, and I will tell you about the time Dar’Myrrha caught a very stupid dragon…”

            Above him as the sunset faded into night, stars twinkled in the form of a great white cat, and one of the two violet eyes that made Her eyes winked. So long as Khajiit and Nord lived, the Dragon Cat would be remembered.

            As it should be.


End file.
